The Duke
by RiskPig
Summary: Rum Gold, a mere spinner to Duke, has lied, cheated, and killed to get everything he wanted. He was at the top of the world, until he came across the one thing that refuses to be won by ill means - Belle.
1. The Beauty and the Beast

_1815_

_Waterloo_

War always brought out the worst in men.

It can be completely unintentional. The grim, bloody brutality of man versus man could inspire acts of cruelty that most soldiers found appalling in their previous lives as civilians. Daily deception, torture, and murder changed the men from spoiled nobles to killing machines. This was a simple, absolute fact.

Even in the case of the platoon coward, Private Rum Gold.

His hands gripped tightly around the throat of his enemy. Rum was long past the point of regret, killing a man. Sounds of the battlefield, screams and cannon-fire, were overpowered by his heartbeat roaring in his ears. His vision centered on his victim, and he prayed for time to move faster. For no one to see him. For the past year to have never happened.

The body went slack, the struggling over. Rum basked in but a single moment of relief, evolving to euphoria. Maintaining his last shred of sense, he bolted into the woods, the fear of being caught pushing him forward. He needed to get out of the country. Out of the military. As far away from himself and this fucking war as possible.

His captain, Gaston Avenant, Duke of Kent, was dead at last.

—-

—-

—-

In the case of Lady Isabelle French, spoiled took on a new definition. For the young ladies of the _ton_, spoiled meant greedy in fashion, jewels, and attention. But Isabelle, or Belle to her friends, had been lavished with books, maps, and her father's love.

Fathers of the _ton_ had no use for their daughters. Most thought of their daughters as simpering, silly broodmares only meant to unite and carry on bloodlines. One or two could be taught how to ride a horse, but beyond that, they were occupied in setting up their nurseries. But in the case of Sir French, his little girl was a joy bestowed by Heaven itself.

With his beloved wife gone from childbirth, his obligation to Belle, the only connection he had, motivated him to climb out of bed every day. They were inseparable. Maurice French made sure his daughter rode horses, knew her maths, and dreamed. The child dove into books, making the estate's library her playground. There, she fought pirates, discovered many birds, and lived the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. To further her education, her father hired the best tutors he could afford.

Their lives were bliss. Until Belle's twelfth birthday party.

Fellow peers and their children came to see Belle, and as the children ran off to play games, Maurice was left with the parents, and was treated to a sit down by the mothers in the group.

"Your child is a beast," they told him. "She needs discipline, and education. A governess, not those men filling her head with nonsense."

Even though it filled him with rage to hear them speak about his precious child that way, there was a level of truth to it. He watched Belle run around, scraping her knees, and her tearing her dress. The other girls played tea party as Belle played soldiers with the boys. He could not tolerate the women calling his daughter a beast, and said as much, asking the women to leave early. But the harsh reality was that Belle was quickly changing into a young woman, and needed to start acting like one.

Children grew up, he knew that. But Belle had to be a woman, and women were meant to be married. It depressed him to think of another man coming along to take his whole world away from him, but it was crueler to doom her to life as a spinster. So, he consulted with many governesses, and they all said the same thing: Belle needed to learn how to be a lady, a whole slew of traits to make her more successful in the marriage mart.

And so, with a heavy heart, but reminding himself it was in his daughter's best interest, Maurice sent away the tutors, limited Belle's time in the sunshine, and placed her in the hands of a capable governess.

Belle, a darling child, never complained. She seemed confused at first, wondering if her father found her wanting, but quickly adapted to the new lifestyle. Such a smart girl, his Belle. After six months of etiquette and tea time, he scoured the countryside for potential husbands.

That was another task Maurice was reluctant to accomplish. He told himself she was too young for him to worry about husbands. But _he_ was betrothed as a small child, and there was no harm in being prepared.

His large purse enticed many potential in-laws. _Noveau riche_ still meant money. And even though he bought the title, a baronet was still a baronet. Within weeks, he succeeded in snatching a contract between Belle and a Duke's son, under the condition that she could annul the engagement should a better option come along.

—

—

—

_1818_

_London_

The Season was underway, and Belle was homesick. She missed the moors of her father's country home, where she occasionally sneaked away to have adventures, or pretend she was a ghost, searching for her lost love. Her father would lock her in her room if he knew she regularly ran off unattended.

Her chaperone, Mrs. Lucas, lectured her on the carriage ride to the Nolan Estate, the first ball of the London season. Belle liked the Nolans just fine, but she dreaded an evening of ball gowns, awkward dancing, and empty conversation.

This year was her second foray into the marriage mart, her betrothed long dead, leaving her to fend for herself amongst the cads and fortune seekers. Belle knew her looks brought the men close, but she was far from being titled Incomparable. Her father's money was the main draw, and she grew tired of the unwanted attention.

Not that she did not wish to be married. All women wanted husbands, of course. Yes. But the challenge of finding the right husband was made much more difficult, because she dreamed of the love from her sensation novels. Mrs. Lucas tried and tried again to set her straight on her expectations, but Belle always kept her mind open to romance. Despite her resignation to her fate, she still insisted on control. She had the choice, she had the final say. No one was ever going to make those decisions for her.

Another trait her string of governesses tried to stamp out of her. Belle may be polite, and compliant to her elders, but she was still stubborn and strong-willed. Considered a fault by most, Belle knew this to be an advantage. Her father was not a well man, and if his estate was to be absorbed by her future husband's, she needed to ensure its future.

Within minutes of arrival, she found her dance card mostly filled. With some time left before the first dance, Belle reacquainted herself with her favorite spot in a ballroom: the wall. Watching everyone else mingle, admiring the costumes or dresses, were more enjoyable pursuits than throwing herself into the throng of the missish and humdrum. She had friends amongst the _ton_, but she would rather have tea than share a waltz. Tea invited pleasant conversation and laughter. Dancing left her stressed, watching her feet to avoid her partner's eyes. The intimate contact made her uncomfortable, and she always found herself tongue in a situation that forced her to converse, because spending two minutes in silence just felt all the more awkward.

In her last season, the men were always rushing to fetch her lemonade. So, to avoid those encounters, Belle poured her own and made herself at home in a corner. The crop seemed thickened this year. More ladies were out, but the same men from before showed up. That meant no one new for her to meet, besides the young women currently more considered with finding a dance partner, which suited Belle just fine.

As everyone gathered their partners for the first dance, a quadrille, Belle glanced at her dance card to see with whom she'd have the pleasure of embarrassing herself.

_His Grace, The Duke of Kent_

Kent… Kent… She could not picture the face of the Lord Duke Kent, and hoped he found her soon. A hand at her elbow startled her, and she looked to the person that presumed familiarity.

Belle had definitely never met the man she _knew_ must be Kent.

An older gentleman, with dusty brown hair. Long, an outdated fashion left for dandies, but he wore it well. He dressed smart in a dark brown suit with a leather (how unusual) vest. Upon further study, she realized the suit was not a dark brown, but a dark gold.

With a kind smile, but no greeting, he led her to the dance floor.


	2. Faux Pas

Belle had been whisked away to the dance floor by a stately gentleman, the Duke Kent. At first glance, he did not look handsome, but he had a contagious confidence and an easy smile. His silence alluded to an air of mystery; a ploy she had yet to encounter.

As they made their turns, Belle studied her partner. The awkwardness reared its head and this man's silence was _not_ helping. She only ever felt compelled to speak during a dance to fill the time, but now she wanted Kent to say _something_.

"I live on a moor." Succinct. Coherent. Stupid. She lived on a moor? Not, "lovely weather," or "I enjoy this dance." Belle's social incompetence had set her off to another long, _long_ night. "You can see the fog best at night." Why was she still trying to talk?

"I love moors."

He was still smiling, and she heard his soft Scottish brogue. Now, she had a point of conversation, and he did not look at her like she was a loon.

"Have you seen many moors in England? I imagine they cannot compare to Scotland's famous landscape."

"Afraid not. Perhaps I have not seen them all."

Alright, simple, if trite conversation. Still better than her usual expectations. The dance had still only begun, and she actually thought of more to say.

"You are the Lord Duke Kent?" Belle asked. "Any relation to the Avenants?"

It happened so quickly, that Belle would have only noticed if she had looked for it. The duke's confidence dropped, and his face hardened, the grin changing to a sneer. But Kent gathered himself and carried on with his old news. "I am," he said. "A distant cousin. Due to the previous duke's death without providing an heir, the solicitors combed the countryside for a replacement. Took the poor gents all the way to Glasgow to find me."

"My condolences, my lord."

"Congratulations, rather. I never knew the man, and I shall never miss him. His death has vastly improved my standard of living."

Belle tripped in her steps, caught off guard by the sudden crude turn of their discussion. Attempting to keep the mood light, she changed the subject. "I imagine your family miss the country. London can be daunting to newcomers."

"True, especially considering that I came alone. Before I inherited, I was but a mere wool spinner, which does not attract many eligible ladies. Maybe with my new title, my luck will change. I hear tell a pretty purse attracts a pretty lady."

And now, Belle, had a new-found sense of nerve. The poor fellow was more socially inept than she, with his lack of tact for the more sensitive topics.

And that made her comfortable to be just as inept.

"My lord, you have known me for two minutes, and you are already talking of marriage? Is this a proposal out of desperation?"

Kent laughed, soft and soothing, and she felt a weakness in her knees. She beamed, glad that he had not run off scared.

"Thankfully," he chuckled, "I have not been pushed to those limits. I am not hasty for a bride, dearie, but I welcome new friends."

"A friend, Your Grace? I would recommend some friends, but I don't know you well enough to know how you would suit."

The dance had ended, but Belle still wanted to chat. Kent was so different. Odd, and audacious, but wonderfully new. She hated to end their meeting so soon, but they only had a few minutes before the next dance.

"Then, dearie," he said, "what would you say if I called upon you tomorrow? The better for you to learn how I would suit?"

Belle never received callers. She and her father were renowned recluses, and they liked it that way. But she did not realize how much she loved the idea of a man coming to call until it seemed like a possibility.

"I would say that you should bring brandy for my father. He will be more receptive to another man in his domain."

Kent bowed and took his leave, having escorted her to the lemonade table. For the first time, Belle had been enjoying herself at a ball. A man was coming to call. Possibly to court her. The possibility of even the thought of marriage was far off, but this was certainly a step forward.

She could not wait to see him again. Tomorrow would not be soon enough.

Then again, she read her dance card for her next partner, perhaps tomorrow _was_ soon enough.

After a waltz with the village doctor Whale, she had _another_ dance with Lord Kent. And then another after that!

Three dances? Oh dear. If she danced with that man three times in one night, her father would chase both of them down the aisle by morning. Kent could not have known, only a scoundrel would assume three dance in a single night! The poor man had been ensconced in the country for too long.

What could she do? She was reluctant to consult with Mrs. Lucas, her pride demanding she resolve this on her own. But what to do? She could not reject him. Kent was new to the peerage, and she would not embarrass him with a cut direct. She could not dance with him either, tongues would wag of their impending engagement. It was not that she did not like the man, because strangely enough, she found him to be perfectly charming.

Belle thought she might faint...

Wait, of course!

* * *

Rum could not believe his luck. At the start, he had ruined a dashing first impression by not introducing himself, instead ushering the girl to the floor like an errant child. And then, he was so nervous, he could not speak until she broke the tension with her comment on moors.

That was not right, _he_ was supposed to do all the talking. Be charming and witty, draw her in with his airs, and have her fall head over heels by the end of the quadrille. But once he started talking he could not stop, and he could kick himself for that. Rum could see Lady French growing uncomfortable, and he tried to put her at ease, but his insolent tongue kept going.

And then, bless, she put _him_ at ease with her asking about his marriage proposal. He knew if he told the truth, the dear would head for the hills. He wanted to drop to one knee and brandish the diamond ring in his pocket, but, alas, he had to do this the right way.

Belle deserved the right way.

He knew this to be true the moment he first saw her face three years ago. Captain Avenant, the former Duke of Kent had bragged to his men of the lovely bride waiting for him in England. And he bragged of the women he conquered during their campaign. To make sure the men knew how well Avenant lived, he would pass around his betrothed's miniature. They all admired her likeness, and praised him for his luck.

Rum saw her face, and he knew, right then and there, that he would never know happiness until she was his.

He knew he had no chance with Belle. _Belle_, with the name as lovely as she. Rum was a spinner, a coward, and did not have the looks to compete with Avenant.

All the more reason to hate him. Gaston Avenant was a cruel man. He pushed his men too far, making them work day and night as he sat cozy in his tent, eating the better food. And he paid particular attention to Rum.

Avenant called him "Spindleshanks," as a reference to his thin build and knobby knees. Rum was not as strong as the other men, nor as quick, which made him an easier target.

The thought of that troll going home to an angel and massive wealth while Rum would return to an empty home and a spinning wheel filled him with unspeakable rage...

A music change pulled him from his memories, and Rum realized it was his turn for another dance with the woman of his dreams. He searched for her, but the girl could not be found. He stopped when he heard the Viscountess Nolan mention Belle's name.

"...took off ill, poor thing. She said she felt faint, and needed rest. I imagine all these people must have made her overexcited. I told her we expected a crush, but she insisted on coming."

"Lady French is better suited to the country. I reckon she will cut her season short, poor dear."

His Belle, ill? Instincts pointed toward seeing to her at once, but it was well into the evening, and even a bumpkin as he knew better than to call upon a gentlewoman at this time. Without a reason to stay, he went home, forgetting to thank his hosts and say goodnight.

* * *

The ride to his London home was short, and he rushed to his parlor, expecting to find his valet and confidant in his usual spot on a sofa, helping himself to Rum's brandy.

Indeed, his assumptions were correct, as Jefferson, his trusted companion of three years reclined in the parlor, imbibing spirits like Tantalus free from his bounds.

"Ah," said Jefferson, "Your Grace, so good to see you home. I missed you so. How did your evening go?" He stumbled across the room, resting his hand with a heavy clap on Rum's shoulder, a stupid smirk on his face. He marked the time on the mantel clock. "But wait, 'tis barely nine my -_ hic!_ - lord. Did the lady see through you and give you the cut direct? Or, did your cowardice get the better of you?"

Rum was not amused. He shoved Jefferson off of him, and took away the bottle his valet held close. Taking a swig straight from the bottle, he recounted the evening's events. Expecting sympathy from his man, he was surprised to see disdain in Jefferson's eyes.

His valet, suddenly sober, scolded him for his faux pas. "Bloody hell, Gold, three dances? _Three_? Your lady love did not get sick, she ran away! How could you be so careless, have you not listened to anything I've been teaching you?"

Jefferson wrestled the bottle away, taking more liberal drafts until all the brandy was gone. "People already take notice of you, because you're a duke. That's going to happen period. But, you're not making our job any easier by making mistakes."

"Well then, what should I do? I am supposed to call upon her tomorrow."

"Oh, Holy Mother of Christ, Gold, don't."

* * *

At noon, Belle dreaded her visit. Last night she had learned that Lord Kent moved to the beat of his own drum, and that was going to get her into trouble.

But how to break him in slowly? It felt rude to suddenly bar the doors to him after telling him he was welcome. Perhaps she could pretend she was still sick? That would make her feel less guilty. Slightly.

Before she could inform the butler of her plan, he arrived with a tray. He served her a card and a single red rose. Perplexed, she read the card.

_My sincere apologies for calling off our meeting today, dearie, but your well-being is more important than my isolation dilemma._

_Until you're well,_

_His Grace Rum Gold, Duke of Kent_


	3. We Begin

_"Get up, Spindleshanks! Fucking get up!"_

_Rum coughed into the mud, holding his knees to his chest. His insides felt on fire from Captain Avenant's savage beating. The man still kicked him as motivation to stand up, the rest of the platoon laughing at their weekly entertainment. They took delight in preying on the weak, finding release from violence with more violence. Everyone knew they were a pathetic lot, lead by a useless, pampered ponce with more money than sense. Constantly grounded by the enemy, they took their victories where they could._

_Rum was sure he was bleeding now, and tried to crawl away. Avenant grabbed his leg and pulled, stepping on his back, eliciting more laughter from their audience. This morning had been Rum's fourth turn in a row to dig a latrine, and he had a rare moment of courage to refuse, claiming it to be unfair. Instead of the usual form of discipline for disobeying an officer, Avenant shoved him into a hole and unleashed hell._

Rum woke with a start, shivering in cold sweat. His heart raced, as he tried to catch his breath. These dreams were a constant, but still shook him every morning.

Before he could recover, Jefferson stormed into his chambers, the morning dress on his arm. Pausing to rest the clothes on the bed, he threw open the window curtains, immersing the room with the absurdly bright morning light. Rum grumbled to himself, burrowing into the blankets in hope of a better sleep. But, having none of that, Jefferson tossed the blankets to the floor. In purely contrary fashion, the valet declared himself a morning person, striving to ruin one of the better perks of aristocracy: sleeping until noon, languishing in the sheets, free from the worries on how he was going to live for another day.

Defeated, Rum submitted himself to a brown leather morning coat and tight leggings. Although he had the money to wear the best fashions, habits kept him in soft animal hides and loose shirtsleeves. He managed to pull off the peasant look with custom material and a heavy dose of flair. When their plan first came together, Jefferson paraded all sorts of outfits for him, in powder blues and silk ruffles, but he could not stomach the thought of prancing about London looking like a dandy. He demanded to keep his browns and golds, and that was the end of it.

"I never asked for these wake-up calls, you mad man," said Rum. "One cannot be expected to bear the duchy without sleep."

"That's because you never _sleep_." Jefferson did not elaborate, instead inspecting his master's attire, handing over the daily itinerary. "My sources say that your friends frequent these gambling houses. One of them with an alarming frequency."

Rum smiled. "Do we own it?"

"We will by the end of the day."

—

—

—

_The Blue Fairy_ stood as a testament to the posh lifestyle. Gambling, cigars, and exclusivity. Only the bluest of blood were permitted access, and wives were turned away at the door - a true escape for the _ennui_ of the well-born.

And Rum had a meeting with the owner.

A short, disheveled man lurked by the front door, reeking of gin. The dwarfed fellow ranted to a stoic, rather tall guard, passers-by stopping to stare at every belted expletive.

"Who the hell do you think you are? Who the hell do you think _I_ am?" Tossing away a flask, the dwarf raised his fists, too inebriated to think clearly. Rum had watched, amused by the show of bravado, but, he needed to put an end to it, if only to get inside.

"Please," Rum interrupted the beating that was sure to follow. "Pray tell who do _you_ think you are?"

"No need to consort with 'em, guv'nor!" A voice shouted from the crowd. "Grumpy's just knackered, is all. Poor fing needs 'is sleep." Another man, just as miniature as the instigator, came forward, purple hat in hand.

Rum turned away to tell the second dwarf to collect his friend, but before he could say anything, he was shoved from behind. Turning on his heel, he found "Grumpy" puffing out his chest, an invitation to fight.

He kept a cane with him, more for appearance than function. Faster than the dwarf could blink, Rum used it to sweep out Grumpy's feet from under him, and rested the pointed end on his throat.

"Now," he sighed, ignoring the public's amazed reaction to his showmanship. "You are going to let your little friend take you home, and you are going to dunk your head in a horse trough until you are fit to be seen by the likes of me. Am I clear?"

Grumpy nodded, unable to speak. Rum nudged him to roll over with his feet, and dismissed the incident from his mind. He collected himself, smoothing out his jacket, and addressed the tall man at the door.

"Might I step in, good sir?"

An unflappable gentleman, he stared at Rum with a dead expression, merely shaking his head. Irritated by this second hindrance, Rum readied himself to make an example out of this one when a man spoke smoothly over his shoulder.

"He is with me, Dove. A man that can cleanly take down scum like that is sure member material."

Rum wanted to snap that he did not need help, but the identity of his new "friend" shocked him still, his heart skipping a beat.

Sir Killian Jones.

Formerly Lieutenant Killian Jones.

_"Lick my boots clean, Shanks! Lick them, and I will let you eat."_

_Rum, lips bleeding, and eyes swollen, reached for a discarded boot, his whole body trembling from the pain and humiliation._ _The rest of the platoon were at dinner, praise God, but he knew Jones would share this story for days to come. A tear running down his cheek, he extended his tongue, and gave a small lick._

_He wretched, and Jones kicked his face. Gold begged to be let go, that he had not eaten in days, but Jones cackled in his face, holding him up by his hair. The boot shoved in his face, he was given instruction to keep licking until his tongue turned black._

_Only _then_ would he be given food._

Lost in his memories, Rum did not realize that he had been escorted to a poker table. Three other men sat at the table, assessing the newcomer. He recognized Lord Nolan, a friendly man that was the first to welcome him as a peer. The man seated next to him, he did not know, but the third man brought more memories from the war. Second Lieutenant Victor Whale, a man currently playing at doctor.

He remembered the good doctor having a penchant for experimentation and cruelty, lacking consideration for his fellow human beings. Stamping on the flashes of pain, he offered a dramatic bow, introducing himself to Jones' companions.

"Why don't you deal me in gentlemen? I'm new with money, and I am itching to be irresponsible with it."

That earned their immediate acceptance. Dealt in, Rum worked his magic to make them all bosom friends.

—

—

—

"And he still hasn't called?"

"No!"

Belle and her neighbor Lady Mary Margaret Blanchard had ice from Gunter's, a regular pastime. During the Season, they were nearly inseparable, sharing their love of books and thirst for adventure. They talked about everything from ball gowns to fine art.

Their more frequent topic of conversation, as of late, was men, and how frustrating they could be. Lord Kent had promised to call on her, but she had not seen him for a week. She worried that he saw through her facade, and did not want to see her again out of hurt.

A larger part wanted to become better acquainted with him out of curiosity, but the rest wondered if her interest stemmed from loneliness. If she was obsessing over this because no one else besides Mary Margaret interacted with her on _any_ level.

"Do you think he knows I was faking?" Mary Margaret's heart pained for the sadness in her friend's eyes. Reaching for her hands, she tried her best to reassure her.

"If so, he brought it on himself. The buffoon should not have come to a ball if he did not know the rules. If he snubs you, then you are better off without that-"

"Lady French?"

Belle had never seen Mary Margaret's eyes so wide. Lord Kent had approached their table, resting on a cane, that easy smile greeting her. Properly chagrined, Mary Margaret deflated in her seat.

Belle tried to hide her excitement. She rose from her chair, but Mrs Lucas pushed her back down.

"Can I help you, sir?" Her chaperone stood between her and Lord Kent, her protectiveness adding a few inches to the older woman's posture.

"Apologies, ma'am, but I am an acquaintance of Lady French. I was hoping to wish the lady a good afternoon."

"Well, you have, so off with you."

But Kent did not scare easily. "Would she mind if I invited her to a ride in Hyde Park tomorrow?" He spoke to Mrs Lucas directly, without dropping that smile.

She appraised him for a moment. "She will show up pretty if you bring brandy."

Belle was not sure if she should be upset that a tryst was being planned _for_ her, but it was amusing all the same. Mrs Lucas assigned a time and a place, shooing him away before he could say anything more.


	4. Warning

When it came to poker, victory was not always determined by who won the pot. For Rum to win, he needed to walk away with something much more valuable.

"Why don't you deal me in gentlemen? I'm new with money, and I am itching to be irresponsible with it."

A seat had been pulled out for Rum, and he made himself comfortable. Cards dealt, he assessed the opposition, reviewing everything Jefferson taught him. David Nolan, young, naive, and unlikely to take risks save for extreme situations. A game amongst friends stood far from extreme, therefore, an unlikely bluffer. Whale praised himself for his genius; if he had a good hand, he would show it, intentionally or not.

But the man between them, the stranger, was a wild card.

Older, portly gentleman. Had the hands of a laborer and liberal drinker. He could either understand the trial in earning money, or the drink made him careless. Rum folded the first few hands to study. Just as he suspected, Nolan would not bluff, and Whale had a tell for every good hand.

The third gent was sloppy, switching between bold and timid. Satisfied with this information, Rum let him win the next two hands, drawing Nolan and Whale to huge pots, and then scaring them off at the right moment. How pathetic that in less than hour, he could play all of these men like a violin.

"Damn it all, French," Jones declared. "I depended on your bad luck!"

French.

_Sir _French?

"Are you a poor poker player, Sir French?" Rum asked.

The older man chuckled, self-effacing. "I am quick on chances, good or bad, Your Grace."

Indeed. He pretended contemplating his cards while he thought over this new piece of information. So, this was Belle's father. The man that betrothed her to the brutish prig, Gaston Avenant, unknowing that he almost placed his daughter in the worst danger.

Although, French might not have been entirely ignorant of Avenant's character. Rum noticed the company he kept, as well as the drunkard's mannerisms and tendencies for brazen bluffs. Either the baronet had more money than expected, or he simply did not care.

Actually, the former might be the right of it. French needed to be ludicrously rich to have landed a marriage contract with a duke, without ever having to _see_ Belle.

He logged that away for later. For now, he needed to win this last game. Two hours later, the pot had been raised to a startling nine hundred pounds. Financially, he could afford to lose again, but for his plan to gain momentum, it had to start here.

Whale and Nolan folded, leaving the game to him, French and Jones. French had stayed due to Rum building his confidence, but for every game French won, Jones had three. The bastard turned cocky, and attempted to run Rum off by raising the bet another one hundred pounds, causing French to fold.

But a poker bet had now placed low on the scale of things Rum feared in this world.

"Interesting, Jones. I will see your hundred…"

Jones' smile dropped.

"And raise you another."

Grumbling to himself, Jones threw down his cards and left the table, stomping with his shoulders slumped like a pouting child.

"Poor sport," said Nolan. "He rarely loses out, so it's good to see him taken now and then. I would gladly go ahead for a game without him, but if I do not leave now, my wife will worry."

"Ah, newlyweds. I may be old, but not blind, Nolan. You cannot wait to be home."

With a laugh, Nolan left them alone, French and Rum facing each other. French's hands trembled as he reached for his flask in his shirt pocket. After a deep draft, Rum opened his hand.

French had been taken aback, and Rum understood why. It was churlish for a man to ask for payment, even though the money was rightfully his. Polite society would ask him to wait until French fulfilled his debt on his own.

But Rum needed to be irregular, and he quite enjoyed it.

"W-Would you take a marker?"

Ah, this was going to be easy. He was not sure what he was planning with French yet, but he wanted to give the man reason to feel off-kilter around him. "I have something better in mind," he said.

"Indeed?"

"Yes. Are you a married man, Sir French?" He already knew the answer, but it was simpler to allow the man to set himself up for later.

"Aye, widowed, actually. All that is left is me and my girl." French caught himself there, eyes narrowed. He felt scrutinized, sure that French gave away more than he meant. "Why?"

"Instead of paying me, you could give me something. I have all the money in the world, and I will not have my new friend indebted to me."

The older man wiped his brow, relieved, but Rum deliberately unsettled him with his request.

"I want your wife's veil."

French almost choked, his mood switching from surprise to anger in an instant.

"That is a perverted request, Your Grace." His voice was steady, and cold. If Rum were a younger man, he would have cowed to his authority, but instead, he met French's glare with a benign smile, challenging him for a confrontation.

"What could you possibly want with a veil? Couldn't you ask for anything else?"

"No," he said simply. Like hell he knew what he would do with it, but it was enough to catch him off guard, and be wary of him for the rest of their association. French had his fists clenched, looking ready to throttle him, but Rum smiled all the same.

A footman arrived, disrupting the tension, and whispered in his ear.

"The lady wishes to see you."

Rum pushed himself away from the table, giving French a bow. Finally looking away, he produced a calling card from his sleeve. "Feel free to visit me anytime. I expect to see you soon."

* * *

"Your Ladyship, His Grace, the Duke of Kent, is here to see you."

"Let him in, Hunter."

Rum was escorted to an office on the top floor of the club. At first glance, he recoiled at the decor. White and black, and sterile save for the trees painted on her walls. She sat on her desk, leaning on one hand, holding an apple in the other.

He had one word for her: whore. The woman had been in mourning for nearly a year, but her clothing suggested otherwise. She still wore the black, but her bodice had been fitted to her shape, her décolletage plunging. Her hair had been piled on top of her head, with a few locks left to scandalously fall down the back of her neck. Saucy women never appealed to him, and usually avoided them. But, an encounter with this witch was necessary to his plans.

He repressed a flinch when she smiled at him with cheek, those red painted lips parting to show teeth. Instead, he carried on the usual facade of a man experienced with people like her; scheming spiders.

"I see you snaked your way into my club, Mr Gold. I should have Dove throw you out." Her voice, condescending, had dripped with sensuality, which never worked on him.

"This new face of yours is downright laughable, dearie," he said. "I have not forgotten of the darling creature too scared to even _look_ at a gun. Let alone pull the trigger…"

Regina Mills, a merchant's daughter, had risen to aristocracy by marrying a marquess with good standing and wealth. Lovely girl from a lovely family, she rescued the marquess' daughter from a horrific death, inspiring one of the greatest love stories of the age when the chit's father proposed marriage to Regina out of gratitude.

Tragically, her husband died three years within the marriage, leaving his grand estate and properties (such as this club) to his wife until his daughter, Mary Margaret, married.

Regina did not like her calling him a mere "mister" to be ignored, but she played along with whatever game he had in mind. "I have never fired a gun, my dear Mr Gold."

She had stood up, and they slowly circled her office, that apple bouncing back and forth between her hands. That little quirk of hers always annoyed him; he had never seen her eat an apple, but she always carried one with her.

"That may be, but you have certainly traveled to Egypt."

She froze, almost dropping her toy. He moved still, walking towards her slowly. She took one step back, but the cold demeanor returned, her smile stretched taut from ear to ear.

"What does that have to do with anything, _Mr_ Gold?"

"You can stop that nonsense right now, dearie. I will not fall for it. But, I swear, if you do not address your betters properly, you will suffer severe consequences."

He had her back to the wall now, his hands placed on both sides of her head.

"I heard about your lovely honeymoon in the savage desert, and took it upon myself to learn more about the country. I met a gentleman that told me about the indigenous creatures; such as asps."

She gasped, and then inhaled sharply, dropping her apple. He took delight in the fear in her eyes, wondering on her next move.

"You know nothing," she whispered.

"You're right. But a Sydney Glass does."

She began to yell, but he silenced her with his hand over her mouth.

"Here is what is going to happen," Rum's voice roughened, each word laced with threat. "You are going to hand over the deed to _The Blue Fairy_ to me, lest I tell anyone of your… indiscretions."

Shoving him away, she made a show of smoothing out her dress to avoid his glare. Clearing her throat and tucking her hair behind her ears, she regained her composure.

"You cannot have it. It's entailed." With a sigh, she slinked back to her desk. "Once my…_ precious_ step-daughter is married, the club will go to her husband."

"You mean Whale, yes? That is what your secret meetings are about?"

Regina threw an apple at him. He dodged it, laughing in her face.

"_What do you want?_" She was on the verge of screaming.

"Well, since I cannot have the club, I will settle for simple blackmail. You will pay me half of your monthly profits, as well as give me control. You may assume of role of mistress, but you will answer to _me_."

* * *

Rum left the club with a spring in his step, twirling his cane with abandon. If he thought himself talented, he would have been singing.

His good fortunes were added by the sight of a lovely angel enjoying her ice. He was glad to see Belle out and about, soaking in the sunshine. She had a spoon in her mouth, and, as if he was being taunted by the heavens, she slowly pulled it out, sliding it against her tongue.

Trying his luck to make a second impression, he approached her, her companion's voice flitting through the haze in his mind.

"…he snubs you, then you are better off without that-"

"Lady Belle?"

She turned to him, her eyes capturing his heart. But, he could not let himself be smitten in the crucial first few moments. Belle started to rise from her seat, and he panicked, stumbling on what he wanted to say.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Oh, dear, this had to be the chaperone. An elderly woman, but burly. If he posed a threat, he was sure she would take him down.

"Apologies, ma'am, but I am an acquaintance of Lady Belle."

She stared at him, expectant.

"I was hoping to wish the lady a good afternoon." Actually, he had no hopes at all, but he had to say something to the large, intimidating road block.

"Well, you have," she snapped, "so off with you."

If Belle were not looking, he would have done as this woman bid. But, unfortunately, cowardice never made a lady swoon. "Would she mind if I invited her to a ride in Hyde Park tomorrow?" He made full eye contact, praying he fooled this woman to think he was not one to back away at a stern word like a bairn. Now that he made the request, he felt himself start to sweat.

What if she said yes? Then he would be in public with Belle by his side, touching each other. Minimally, of course, assuming the chaperone did her job well. But the thought of Belle's hands anywhere near him quickened his breath, an thickened his tongue, making it hard for him to swallow.

"She will show up pretty if you bring brandy."

Oh God.

He took her waving him off as an opportunity to run away, holding himself together long enough to fall apart at home.

Belle, his Belle, was going to take a walk with him.

He was going to court his Belle.

He slammed shut, and sagged against his chamber door, using his cane to keep him standing.

"Jefferson!"

* * *

Belle sat down to dinner with her father, still giddy about her afternoon. She had spent the day shopping with Mary Margaret, which was always good fun, but nothing inspired as much bliss as watching her chaperone, Mrs Lucas raring to face off with a man - a man that wanted to _court_ her!

Well, _did_ he want to court her? She still felt unsure about Lord Kent's intentions. But that was neither here or there, and she still needed to tell her father. He might give her independence, but he still had the final say.

"Father?"

Sir French had been sipping his soup. He nodded for her to continue without looking up from his plate.

"I will be going out to Hyde Park tomorrow."

He nodded, listening.

"With a gentleman."

He looked up then, an eyebrow raised. "Oh?" He laid down his spoon, a small smile warming his expression.

"Indeed, my girl? And who is the lucky gentleman?"

"The Duke of Kent."

Belle had never seen her father this pale before. His eyes widened, and he swallowed for a long moment, his hand clenching tight around his spoon. She hastened to calm his nerves, worrying that his stress would aggravate his liver.

"I know, Father, it is odd. But Gaston's cousin seems a nice enough person. He just wants a friend."

He pushed away his plate, a disgusted frown adding to the wrinkles in his face. "I do not approve. I ask that you not go anywhere with that man."

"But Father, why? We are taking a walk in Hyde Park; there's nothing scandalous about that."

"Scandalous!" Oddly, her father barked a laugh. "A single word from that imp's mouth is scandalous enough. I insist that you not go anywhere with him."

She pushed away her own plate, no longer hungry. "I know he is strange. But that's no reason to write him off. And he is Gaston's cousin; we were always friends with the Avenants."

He looked at her, his eyes pleading. Sad to see him worry over her, she hoped to put his concerns to rest, speaking gently.

"Trust me. I will be fine. And Mrs Lucas will be there shadowing us. I can take care of myself, Papa."

That old term of endearment did the trick, and her father returned to his soup.


	5. Her Day

Belle was an early riser. She enjoyed the cold gray of an early morning, the silence of a household yet awoken adding distance between her and the rest of the world. She used disassociation as an oasis from the monotony, sneaking by way of the servant's stairwell to the kitchens.

She made herself a pot of tea, making herself comfortable on a windowsill looking out to the street, uncaring that if anyone were awake, they could see her in her nightgown. Mrs Lucas would be appalled to find her like this: in her morning dress, hair undone, and serving herself tea. The last item would irritate the older woman the most. Belle was a lady, and if she wanted her morning tea, she should summon someone. But, that defeated the point of her solitude, and she could not have that.

Smiling to herself, she sipped her chamomile, and watched the city wake up. Even though she was still, and a little cold, she felt so cheery. Today was free from expectation, and that excited her. Knowing next to nothing about Kent turned a simple outing into an adventure.

A flash of red flew across her periphery, and she jolted. Ruby was home, and to come back this late, or rather, early, meant she had a story…

* * *

Sir French hired the widowed Mrs Lucas because of her experience. She had raised a daughter, and currently a granddaughter. She worked as a governess to support her granddaughter, Ruby, a young lady the same age as Belle. Not wanting to separate family, he brought on Ruby as Belle's companion, and the two made fast friends.

Ruby was dressing her mistress's hair, avoiding the accusing gaze in the mirror, but her resolve could not last for long.

"Alright, alright!" Ruby sighed from exasperation. "I will tell you about last night."

Belle squealed, scooting over to make room at her vanity. Ruby sat down, but continued brushing her hair.

"So, as you know, I met with Peter last night."

"Of course."

"He took me to a tavern, and bought me a pint."

"No!" Belle had pulled away, and the brush snagged her hair.

"Calm down, that's not the story. So, Peter and I are drinking, having a laugh, when I see two people," Ruby held up two fingers, "walk in, wearing hooded cloaks."

"Intriguing."

"Yes, and what was more intriguing about that, was that those two people sat in a corner booth, holding hands, _all night_. At sunrise, when we were all asked to leave…"

* * *

"…she caught a glimpse of his face - _Lord Nolan!_"

Mary Margaret dropped her hat box, tripping over her feet. Belle took her friend's arm, helping her stand. They were on their way to the dress shop to pick up their costume orders. Mary Margaret's step-mother was hosting a masquerade the next day, the most anticipated event of the season. Lady Regina of Whitehall had a reputation for appreciating decadence, therefore her parties had the best themes.

Tomorrow night, everyone was to dress as a fairy tale character. Belle had wanted to be Gretel, and have an excuse to stand by the wall and eat gingerbread all night. But Mary Margaret, outraged at her friend's lack of imagination, insisted that she attend as Beauty from _Beauty and the Beast_.

"But how would anyone know I am supposed to be Beauty?" Belle had asked. "It would be awfully arrogant to assume it would be by my looks."

"Just carry a rose with you."

And that was that.

Assisting her in sorting out her bonnet, Belle inspected her friend for injury. "Are you alright?"

"Fine, fine!" Mary Margaret snapped. "Was she sure?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Your companion, was she _sure_?"

"Sure of what?" The kept walking, Mary Margaret's hand tightly gripping her arm.

"That she saw Lord Nolan last night?"

Before Belle could answer, they had collided with another pair shopping. They were promptly helped back to their feet, everyone trading apologies. To their mutual surprise, they had crossed paths with the Nolans.

Lady Kathryn, a gracious woman, helped Belle dust off her dress as she did the same. From the corner of her eye, she watched an unusual exchange take place. Lord Nolan held Mary Margaret by her arms, and she quickly swat them away, keeping her eyes to the ground. But he looked so concerned, his eyes searching her face for… something.

"Thank you, Lord Nolan. It was a pleasure to run into you. Or not. I mean," Belle could not understand why her friend looked so flustered. "you are nice and it is good to see you, but not good to run _in_ to you."

"We should leave, we are running late for an appointment," she hoped to whisk them out of there before her friend embarrassed herself further. "We will see you at the masquerade?"

"We would be delighted," said Lady Nolan, waving goodbye.

They spent the rest of their shopping trip in silence. Mary Margaret seemed distracted, and unwilling to talk, and Belle's mind was preoccupied with the afternoon to come.

* * *

Belle sat quietly in her day room, working on her embroidery. Or trying to. The time almost rang four o' clock, and Kent still had yet to show. She tapped her foot to the ticking of a mantelpiece clock, biting her lip while she lied to herself that she was not nervous.

She almost threw her embroidery across the room when the door flung open, Ruby running to her, frantically looking her mistress over, inspecting her outfit one last time.

"Oh my God, he's here!"

"Wha-now?"

"No time, go!"

She was pushed out of the door with such force that she almost fell down the stairs. Gathering herself, waiting to catch her breath, she slowly descended, primping her hair. As she reached the last step, voices carried to the hallway.

Mrs Lucas blocked the door with one arm, a bottle tucked under the other. As expected, she was trying to scare him off.

"If I see you do anything inappropriate, even for a second-" She heard Mrs Lucas say.

"I imagine you will tear into my hide, dearie. As titillating as that sounds, I am here for Lady Belle."

She blushed, and her chaperone sputtered, dropping her arm. Kent gently pushed past her, taking in his surroundings. He stopped on her, and when their eyes met, her pulse quickened.

Kent looked at her like no other man did; hungry. His eyes made wicked promises, and his smile should have been outlawed. What made her think this man was not attractive? He was devastating. Dressed smartly in a velvet, navy blue tailcoat and white, silk cravat, he painted a picture of wealth and taste, his movements smooth and sprightly.

"You look beautiful," he said.

She would have disagreed, protesting that her clothes were too plain compared to his, but she knew that anything she said would fall out of her mouth and spoil the moment.

Instead she smiled and took his arm, trying her best to quell the hard pounding in her chest.

* * *

Their walk started quiet, Mrs Lucas trailing behind them at a mere three steps. Belle was tempted to break the silence herself, but she did not trust her mind to say anything more brilliant than "Hyde Park is nice." Instead, she watched the other couples on their promenade, sharing the similar experience of not talking or looking at each other.

After what must have been ten minutes, Kent spoke first. "I live on a farm."

She looked at him, the oddity of his statement giving her pause. But then, almost right away, she laughed, his grin encouraging her.

"I just thought you shared, and it was my turn," he said.

"I see," she said through her laughter. With that one sentence, he had set her completely at ease. "Why do you live on a farm, my Lord Kent?"

He inhaled sharply then, and coughed. She understood; it was unseasonably chilly.

"Apparently the Kent estate is rich with soil for grain. Not that I would know much about it. My expertise does not extend much beyond the raising of sheep."

"Oh, yes, you said something before about being a spinner."

"You were listening." He seemed pleased by that, a light shining in his eyes.

"What else was there to do but comment on the weather, Your Grace?"

He looked away from her, his fingers tapping on her hand as he held it close.

"Rum."

"Pardon?"

"My name. I would like you to call me Rum."

She slipped her hand through his arm, preferring to clasp them behind her back. He was being crude again, and decided to have courage this time, instead of optioning to run away. "That is most irregular, Your Grace."

"I like being irregular. And it's Rum."

"That might have been fine for a spinner, but as a duke, you might want to consider upholding certain standards."

He clasped his own hands behind him, quickening his pace to walk ahead of her. "I have upset you, Lady Belle. Forgive me."

"Not upset, no. Just… unsettled. I don't think you realize that if you said talked this way with another lady, there would have been consequences."

He stopped, spinning towards her, the movement shifting his tailcoat, and Belle could see a leather waistcoat.

"Such as having your partner feigning illness at a ball?"

That took her aback. "Do you leave any subject untouched?" His mention of her ducking out brought back the shame from cutting him. She should have known that his boldness would not let the situation rest.

"Do I distress you, Lady Belle? Do you wish to call it a day?"

"No!" She shouted, drawing the attention of a few people. She waved to them, and stepped closer to Kent. "No, I am just trying to help you understand what people expect of you."

"But, my lady," he took her hand in both of his, "I am a duke. Better than them. Why should I give a flying fig how they think of me?"

Mrs Lucas cleared her throat, but he did not let go, pulling her closer. "I only care what _you_ think, dearie."

His gaze held her captive, gripping her more tightly than his hands. She felt a thumb stroke her palm, and all she could say to him was. "Oh."

He looked down, releasing her. Both taking a step back, Kent used his boot to draw patterns in the dirt.

"Lady Belle, would you permit me the honor of having the first dance - only one dance - at tomorrow night's masquerade?"

Catching his condition, she took back his hands, feeling Mrs Lucas' disapproval on her back. Curse his bizarre charm for making her act out of the ordinary.

"I would like nothing more, my Lord Kent."


	6. His Day

A sane man would have disappeared after having killed a peer. Run for the hills, change their name, and die in obscurity.

But Rum Gold lost his sanity in the war. It had been stamped out of him, leaving nothing but hatred and a thirst for vengeance. He spent every day researching ways to make his enemies pay for their crimes.

After escaping Waterloo, he sought refuge in France, the last place anyone would expect to find a British soldier. A fortuitous decision, for that was where he found Jefferson.

A man of mystery, Jefferson. Before signing on as valet, he ran a mildly successful haberdashery, being one of the happy few to profit from his passion. But, he had grown bored with his life, and Rum offered a much better diversion.

On a sunny morning, the day Rum would take Belle for a walk, the duke had a few pressing errands he needed to handle before he could prepare for his outing. And that was where Jefferson made himself useful. He prided himself in garnering information, assisting his master in determining how to best execute his plans. Today's mission was to learn and review everything they could about the venomous Dr Whale.

As he sat down to breakfast, Rum reminisced over his times with the good doctor. He allowed these memories to wash over him, determined to use them as fuel for his resolve…

_…he was strapped to the table, his head in a vice._ _Second Lieutenant Whale wiped off the blood from his tools with a dirty cloth, impassive to his subject's moans._

_"On a scale of one to ten, how much pain would you say you are in? And be honest, this is for posterity." Whale asked._

_Rum could not answer, not in words. A tortured wail fought it's way from his throat to past his lips, his chest sore._

_"Interesting._" _Whale picked up another tool, one shaped like a hook, and started carving into Rum's legs. A cold man, he did not even relish in the screams, simply jotting down notes with every cut. He opened a black bottle, pouring it liberally over the open wounds. Rum's screams grew louder, and an assistant gagged him with another hand-cloth. _

_"Shut yer gob, else'll have to put you to sleep. Right, Doc?"_

_"Rightly so, Claude." Whale did not look up from his notes_, _pondering over_ _their tests. "I reckon we should try the effects of laudanum next."_

__He snapped out of it, preventing himself from delving too deep lest he ruined his mood for the whole day. Rum needed to be focused on his vengeance, yes, but he also wanted to be good company for Belle this afternoon.

Dr Whale did not stay with the platoon for very long. He was passing through, conducting experiments on pain, and the effects it had on the mind. When he asked for a subject, Captain Avenant was quick to volunteer his favorite whipping boy. When he was feeling particularly sadistic, he invited the lads over to Whale's tent to watch.

Jefferson sat next to him, helping himself to a serving of ham and toast. He noticed his master's notes splayed on the table, and waited for the first order of the day.

"I think," said Rum, "that we should pay very close attention to Lady Mary Margaret."

Jefferson smirked, believing he understood his master's motivations. "Would that have anything to do with her circle of friends?"

"Are you already foxed?"

"I'm working on it." As a matter of fact, Jefferson had just poured whiskey in to his tea.

"Well, until then, be quiet and listen. The Dowager Marchioness of Whitehall is planning to marry off her step-daughter to the awe inspiring Dr Whale."

"A step down? That must be a heavy purse he's carrying."

"Quite. The doctor has made himself quite famous from his research, earning himself a place in the House of Lords without being a lord. So, it's not quite a slap to the face, or a tarnish on the family name if Lady Mary Margaret marries him."

"But why Whale? I'm sure there are other young bucks itching to saddle that prize."

Rum glared, disapproving of his valet's turn of phrase. Fixing himself more tea, he continued.

"Regina's plans stem from a single truth: she hates her step-daughter more than anything. Due to a lot of scheming and backstabbing, the march is hers, legally, until the girl marries. She does not want to see everything she has worked for ripped away from her, and then find herself shunted to a dowager house in the country.

"Whale is the perfect man. He is a scientist, his life is centered around his work. That man is not interested at playing lord, or running an estate. He would be happy to let his mother-in-law do all the work. And if it's at his word, his little wife will not be able to do anything about it. But, the real sweetener to the deal, is that he is a _cruel _man. Happy to inflict pain for the sake of seeing how others will react. If any miss marries him, she is doomed to a hell of torture. And he will have the right to treat his wife as he pleases…"

Jefferson stopped eating, his good humor gone. Everyone, even his closest friends, would call him a scoundrel, but even he could not tolerate the thought of hurting a woman.

"So, what do you think we should do?" Jefferson tucked his hair behind his hears, placing an imaginary thinking cap on his head.

"We find an appropriate suitor for Lady Mary Margaret."

—

—

—

Rum arrived at the French estate after a long day of hunting. He never fancied himself a matchmaker, not pretending to know what made a good match for Lady Mary Margaret. So far, he had a short list, but it was enough for Jefferson to start some investigating.

He stood on the front porch, adjusting his shirt collar, a bottle of brandy tucked under his arm. When did the weather turn hot? He was sweating, and he hoped no one would notice. He felt like he had been waiting for an hour when the door finally opened, a pair of glasses glinting menacingly in the afternoon light.

Oh, goodness. Mrs Lucas the chaperone.

He held out the bottle, showing the formidable woman that he could take direction.

"A gift for Sir French." He attempted a smile, but it came out a grimace.

"That was for me," she said.

Taken aback, he placed the bottle in her hands, watching it magically disappear under her shawl.

"So," her voice gruff, she appraised him, seeming to approve of his attire, "thinking of courting my Belle, are you?"

He raised his hands, resisting the urge to slump his shoulders. "She makes a diverting companion is all, Mrs Lucas."

"Right." She snorted. "Doesn't matter to me, your intentions. However, if I see you do anything inappropriate, even for a second-"

A rare burst of courage sprang forth. He just wanted this exchange to be over with. "I imagine you will tear into my hide, dearie. As titillating as that sounds, I am here for Lady Belle."

He swept past her to the foyer before she could stop him, or say anything more. She seemed resigned to letting him take a gander at their home. It was a quaint house, very cozy. Small touches here and there telling a story of a family that lived here. He noticed a few children's watercolors hanging in places of honor next to family portraits. There was a slight pang in his chest at each image of Belle through the years; she was indeed a beautiful child.

Even more beautiful now. He caught her watching him at the bottom of the stairs, smiling.

How dare she look so ravishing? He wanted to sweep her off her feet and carry her to somewhere more private. Her day dress, a light blue, brought out her eyes, the bodice accentuating her shape. However a modest dresses, she still looked delectable.

Rum hoped he was not drooling, and he complimented her. She seemed pleased, smiling and taking his arm as he escorted her to his carriage.

—

—

—

At the park, Rum scouted the young men, determining who was more serious in their courtship. Making mental notes from his observations, he almost forgot about his lovely companion.

Belle seemed ill at ease, walking next to him. He hoped to soothe her in the way she charmed him.

"I live on a farm," he said. She stared at him, quirking her mouth. He wanted to kiss that mouth, but refrained should she find him more insane. Luckily, she started laughing.

"I just thought you shared, and it was my turn."

"I see." Belle still laughed, the tension cut away. "Why do you live on a farm, my Lord Kent?"

His heart skipped a beat when she called him hers. For a moment he froze, mentally berating himself for the fantasies suddenly taking over. He chose to answer her question as a tether to reality. They talked a little more, but he paused when she addressed him formally once again.

Deliberately ignoring Jefferson's voice warning him about boundaries, he asked her to call him by his Christian name.

"Rum."

"Pardon?"

"My name. I would like you to call me Rum."

The had been walking arm in arm, but she withdrew from him, the loss of her heat leaving an ache in his heart. She looked down, away from him, and he immediately regretted his attempt for intimacy.

"That is most irregular, Your Grace," Belle told him.

He was quick to defend himself, not wanting to lose her. She was pulling away from him again, and it had only been a few minutes. "I like being irregular." Damn his mouth! "And it's Rum." He need to stop talking, but he was desperate to hear her say his name at least once.

Belle shivered, and it hurt to not be able to reach out and comfort her. He did not want her afraid of him. He had been trying to make her intrigued with him, but he botched everything up with the grace of a cripple. Walking ahead of her, hiding his face, he tried to mend their outing.

"I have upset you, Lady Belle. Forgive me."

She claimed to not be upset, but insisted that he behave himself for appearances. He could not understand her respect for propriety. Such an intelligent lady should not need the approval of others, but that was the way of it. And in order to please her, he would uphold the stiff rules of the self-serving bastards of the _ton_. Rum loved the idea of telling everyone to sod off and leave him alone with his Belle, but she deserved better treatment than that.

If propriety was what she wanted, than that was what she would get.

He held her soft hands, never wanting to let go. Looking deep in to her eyes, he asked her as humbly as possible:

"Lady Belle, would you permit me the honor of having the first dance - only one dance - at tomorrow night's masquerade?"

Rum knew Belle had cried off the other night due to embarrassment. He would not give her cause to do that again.

This time, she took his hands, and he brightened at her boldness.

"I would like nothing more, my Lord Kent."

She called him hers twice.


	7. Jones, Part I

The morning promised a productive day. _The Blue Fairy_ ran smoothly, if crowded. This year had the largest gathering of unmarried young ladies, which led to the fathers and bachelors seeking peace and quiet in the clubs. Money rolled in, each nobleman not realizing they were being duped out of their money, with Rum pulling the strings.

One did not have to cheat to guarantee a solid win at cards. It was all about playing the _person_, not the game. Once the riddle of the opponent's mind had been solved, victory was assured. And Rum trained himself a master at manipulation.

His favorite victim, Sir Killian Jones, made a frequent visitor, eager to empty his pockets. The drunken sod also had a friend tag along with him most days. Sir French.

The man had far worse gambling habits. He lost more than he won, making outlandish bets that he was reluctant to pay. He was far from over his head, but if he kept at this rate, French was going to find himself deeply indebted to Rum.

Not a bad turn of events, if he thought about it…

"Dove," he plucked the bouncer seemingly out of thin air, the tall man moving swiftly and silently as death. "I want you to tell the dealers to set Sir French up for a big pot. Let him win today."

"Yes, sir." Dove was the perfect gentleman's gentleman, never questioning orders, nor offering comment, unlike the insolent Jefferson.

"And for Jones… take it all."

—-

—-

—-

Throughout his life, Rum had grown so used to going by unnoticed, that he turned it into a skill. With ludicrous ease, he was able to overhear the conversation between French and Jones at a table just by standing at the bar.

"A good turnout for me today, Jones," said French, meticulously stacking his chips. "If my luck presses on like this, I'll have a dowry large enough to see my daughter married in an hour."

"You're determined to get rid of your girl." Jones had been drinking, his words too loud and slurred for ten o'clock in the morning. However, he was not nearly as inebriated as his companion.

"On the contrary, my good man. I want her to be six years old forever. But, the way of the world as it is, she has to settle down with her own children. I'm trying to procure the best option."

There was a moment of silence, and Rum tapped his fingers impatiently, waiting to hear something of use. He knew that since her betrothed's death, Sir French had been shopping for a new suitor for his daughter. Belle still had the final say in who she married, but they needed the approval of her father to approach her.

Rum stood as the only man to circumvent that condition. Sir French never attended balls, his body no longer up to dancing, allowing sharks like the duke to freely interact with the innocent lady. A fact the older man planned to rectify after yesterday; he was personally escorting Belle to tomorrow night's masquerade. On any other night, that would have proven difficult for Rum, but he had the foresight to assign a dance ahead of time. He wondered if French knew.

That would make for an interesting evening.

"There's still always me, old chum," said Jones, hiccuping in his cup.

There was a short bark of laughter. "I would only resort to a rake like you when there's no one left."

Rum watched Jones grit his teeth when French looked away, nostrils flaring. He curtly ordered another drink, making another haphazard bet.

—-

—-

—-

Belle never considered herself an introvert, but why was it not socially acceptable for her to not have to talk to anyone?

"I am afraid I am otherwise engaged, Sir Killian."

She knew she brought it upon herself for having a picnic unaccompanied, save Mrs Lucas, but she assumed that her book open in her lap was a clear signal that she did not want to be disturbed.

She knew she could call on Mrs Lucas to get rid of Jones if she wished, but this was nothing she could not handle.

"You seem awfully lonely," he said.

"Oh, on the contrary. Edward Waverly is keeping me company."

She held up her book, discreetly covering her smile. Before she had returned to her reading, she caught his expression - the fellow thought her mad. Or silly. Not that she ever cared. Jones, a friend of her father's, regularly visited their home during the season, and his intentions could not be more clear.

She had let it be known that she was not interested in marrying him. The man was a rake, through and through. He did not plan to remain loyal to his wife, and she would never tolerate a philanderer. His feelings toward women notwithstanding, the man never _read._ He was a sailor, how did he not go mad during long months at sea without a book to fill the time? She did not want to imagine how he otherwise occupied himself.

Jones told her he found her beautiful, but he found many women beautiful, as many gossip rags claimed (not that she read that trash… often). That left her father's money as motivation to win her hand.

"Lady Belle, I was hoping you would permit me the honor of having the first dance at tomorrow night's masquerade."

The masquerade. Just thinking about it made her giddy. Belle did her best to not smile as she delivered the bad news.

"I am dreadfully sorry, but I have already promised the first dance."

"Pity, that. How about the second?"

She tried to pretend to read her book, but dropped it. Her first rule since first stepping out in to society was to _never_ dance with Sir Killian. That was too much close contact with a man of wandering hands. Never too crude, just little touches, but that was enough to make her uncomfortable. Rather than ask him to stop, she avoided him altogether.

"Oh, hum, I'm afraid I'll be too tired for much dancing. I get a little too overexcited. Maybe next time."

Finding her page, she held up her book, closing the conversation from her end. Her dismissal, however could have served to be more curt, for he kept trying to engage her.

"How about it?" Jones asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The next ball? Might I have the first dance at the next ball?"

Belle panicked, her mind racing to think of an excuse. She almost gave in, unable to come up with anything polite, when her chaperone stepped in.

"All dance requests are to be submitted to _me_, Sir Killian," said Mrs Lucas. She had stepped in front of Belle, shielding the lady with her skirts. Jones held up his hands, that infamous smile making an appearance out of hopes to charm the old woman.

"My humble apologies, Mrs Lucas. I did not mean to overstep my bounds."

"Well, you did."

"Might I have the honor of the next first dance with Lady Belle?"

Mrs Lucas took a deep breath, puffing out her ample chest, forcing more distance between herself and the knight. "No, you may not. Now, off with you. My lady wants to be left alone."

—-

—-

—-

Jefferson had poured himself a cup of tea and relaxed in an armchair, believing he deserved a moment by the fire. Rum however, thought differently, and dropped a letter on his valet's lap.

"I know where to start with Jones."

Jefferson sighed, setting aside his tea. "I thought we would start with Whale."

"No," Rum made his own tea, "We will finish with Whale _first_, because he is the easier target. Jones, a more sophisticated adversary, will take longer."

The valet sank further in his seat, draping his legs over the side. He had been running errands for three days straight, and wanted just one day of rest. But, he made the mistake of pairing himself with a man obsessed. Meticulous planning and sleepless nights came with the territory.

Rum paced the room, gesticulating to the air, not really caring if Jefferson was listening.

"Jones earned his knighthood from the war. He received a small farm and a decent purse. Before the war, he was a simple sailor, shipping for a merchant."

"French, I presume."

"Correct. After Waterloo, with his new station, he could hardly return to the life of a laborer, but one thing I've learned in this world to be an eternal truth: You can take a man away from the sea, but you cannot take the sea away from him.

"He bought his ship, placing himself as captain."

Rum picked up the letter, prompting Jefferson to read it.

"What is interesting, is that he did not have the funds for such an extravagance, so he took a loan from a dear friend with deep pockets."

Jefferson sat up, now intrigued with the story. "Jones is indebted to French? Is that why they are such good friends? Keeping his enemies close, I imagine."

"Wrong, dearie. Before his death, Jones borrowed money from the former Duke of Kent."


	8. The Masquerade

Nothing stirred the _ton_ more than a masquerade. The pageantry alone could fill the papers for weeks. The women pulled out all the stops, wearing elaborate costumes, trying to outdo one another. The men were not left out either, flashing their colors, topping each other in cleverness an mystique. The opulent ballroom of the Whitehall estate served as the perfect stage for all the mystery and romance.

People lowered their inhibitions when wearing masks, always making for an interesting evening. Tonight expected to be no different.

Belle, after greeting the Dowager Marchioness, stood with her friend Mary Margaret as she received her guests.

"Lovely costume, dear," she said. Indeed, it was lovely. Her friend made a fetching Snow White, red lips and all.

"Oh, thank you, Belle. Oh! You brought the rose. I told you that would pull everything together."

In all honesty, Belle felt ridiculous. Her hair had been made in a simultaneous up-do and mane set to rest on her shoulders, and her golden ballgown could only be described as ostentatious. How anyone could presume her to be a beauty of legend was beyond her. The rose was just the cherry topping.

Once everyone had stepped inside, couples met and were ushered to the dance floor. Belle, anxious, held fast to Mary Margaret's hand, waiting for her dance partner to find her.

"Would you ladies care to dance?" A voice asked from behind them.

—-

—-

—-

Rum waited in line to greet his hostess, dreading the moment he would have to talk to Regina, when something caught his eye.

An angelic figure in gold stood next to Lady Mary Margaret, as they admired the others' gown, making adjustments here or there. Belle glowed in her costume, and even though she chose to not wear a mask, he would have noticed her anywhere.

As he watched the two friends talk, Rum realized that Lady Mary Margaret would not look at her friend. She looked at something else…

Or _someone_ else.

Almost as though a thread had connected them, he realized that she, and Lord David Nolan were admiring one another. And so openly! The fools were so deeply in love, they forgot anyone could see them.

It took a moment for the gravity of the situation to sink in. A plan formed in his mind.

Once inside, he made salutations with the Nolans, inquiring about their costumes as well as other niceties.

"Oh, I am Prince Charming," said Nolan, his wife's arm entwined with his own. The son of a duke looked resplendent in his red coat, giving his long cape a dramatic flourish as he turned. "Kathryn here says she has not decided which princess she is supposed to be."

"Either way, dearie, your wife is the fairest of all." Rum leaned forward, eyes downward and wringing his hands. "I have a small favor to ask, Lord Nolan."

"By all means, my friend."

Rum pointed to their lady loves across the ballroom, still feigning bashfulness. "I am afraid I'm intimidated by my dancing partner, and I am reluctant to face her alone. Would you mind coming with me? Maybe ask the young Lady Mary Margaret for a dance?"

Nolan's eyes lit up, but he was smart enough to hide any more reaction from his wife. He looked to her for permission, and Kathryn, obliviously obliging him, dismissed him with a wave as she searched for a new dance partner.

—

—

—

Belle could not be more happy to see Lord Kent, a marvel in a tailcoat made of an unfamiliar brown material. It resembled his collection of leathers, but she could not place it. Gold smears bedecked his cheeks, and he wore a black mask over his eyes.

He led her to the dance floor, and submitted themselves to the waltz.

"What a riveting costume, my Lord Kent. What is it made out of?"

He smiled, revealing more gold flecks on his teeth. "Crocodile skin, my dear. Makes me more menacing."

"And are you meant to be menacing, Your Grace? Forgive me, but I cannot place who you are supposed to be."

They spun around the ballroom, the faces of the crowd blurring and disappearing.

"I wish to guess first," Kent told her. "You, Lady Belle, are Beauty, a damsel ensnared by the Beast."

Keeping the rose in her hand on his shoulder, she tapped his face with it. "I wonder what gave that away."

"Wasn't the rose, dearie. It is because you are the most beautiful one here."

He laughed at her, watching her mouth form into a perfect "o." Not wanting to let the moment embarrass her, she deflected with a question. "You still need to tell me who you are."

"Lord Rum of Kent."

"Your costume, silly!"

"Oh my, of course. I forgot. Tell you what, I will give you… three chances to guess my name. Else you forfeit."

Belle stepped on his foot then, forgetting to count her steps. She normally hated dancing, but his company made her forget about the poise such social interaction demanded.

"Sorry. Forfeit what, my lord?"

He seemed to consider that, licking his lips. "I haven't decided, so I suggest you don't lose."

That made her laugh. "Hm. Three guesses to your _name_, you say?"

"Quite."

"Is it… James?"

"No dear."

"What about… Gary?"

He raised an eyebrow at that, but a smile that could only be described as evil slowly grew. She dared not think what he had in mind for his prize. Her stomach fluttered at what she had in mind, but he would never be so presumptuous to ask for a - a _kiss_!

"Fine. Then is your name… Rum…plestiltskin?"

—

—

—

He tried to not relish the fact that she Belle lingered on his name, but he could not help himself. He smiled, and nearly kissed her there for all to see.

"Correct, dearie. What would you like for your prize?"

—-

—-

—-

"I haven't decided." Belle tried to mimic his accent, earning a small laugh. The music had slowed, signaling the end of the dance. The prospect of saying goodbye to him for the night saddened her, but took their last moments as an opportunity to flirt.

"Why Rumplestiltskin? He is not a well-favored character."

"Much like you and Beauty, he and I are a perfect match." Alas, the song had ended, and he led her off the dance floor to the punch table.

"How is that?"

Kent poured her a glass, a gesture she normally loathed. Really, did men think women were incapable of handling a ladle? But with him, it felt natural.

"We collect children for their pelts."

She dropped her little cup, spilling punch on his boots. Damning her lack of grace, she shamed herself further by retrieving the cup before he could, dabbing a little at his boots with her hem. Strong hands took her arms and made her stand.

"That was just a quip, dearie. Not serious." Thank goodness he did not seem angry. No, if anything, he seemed amused, with a well-meaning grin crinkling his eyes.

"Oh no," she held up the cup, marking the damage. "It's chipped."

"Yes, dearie, but you can hardly see it." A lie. Likely an attempt to make her feel better. "It's just a cup."

Kent hid it under the table, nudging it further behind the tablecloth with his boot. Her dignity salvaged,she swat him with her reticule. "What made you say such a beastly thing? Do you take delight in putting me off?"

"On the contrary, dearie, I take delight in _shocking_ you. Because I think deep down, you are never really disapproving of me."

—-

—-

—-

When she first came into his arms for their waltz, Rum wanted nothing else in the world but to sweep her up and carry her off to a private place for a good, thorough ravaging. Alas, proper ladies looked down on such behavior, and he settled for remaining close to her for the evening. They shared companionable silence, sipping their punch as they watch the other couples dance. After two dances, Rum noted the way Belle watched them wistfully, forcing him to break their deal.

"Lady Belle, if I'm not being too bold… would you care for a second dance?"

She spoke to her cup. "I would love to, Lord Kent. But I cant."

"Why ever not, dearie?"

She looked up, perusing the ballroom until she pointed to a corner.

"You see that gentleman over there? The one dressed like a pirate?"

The man in question was Sir Killian Jones, wearing a quite befitting costume, looking dashing and daring, sweet-talking a young lass dressed as a swan. At first concerned and a little vexed as to why someone like the bastard rake could be associated with a pure creature like Belle, he remembered that he and her father were well acquainted through Sir French's business.

"I am familiar, yes. A repugnant chap."

"Well, he had asked me to dance. I told him I would not dance but the first with you."

"Why not just tell him you do not wish to dance with him rather than curb your pleasures?"

Her eyes widened in disbelief, the rest of her wearing the same expression that appeared every time he said something less than noble. "Because it's _rude_. A lady cannot say no to a gentleman. Within reason."

"And what's yours?"

"He is lewd and makes my flesh crawl."

"A sound reason enough."

"Oh hush, you." Belle poured herself more punch, and he let her. He had the feeling if he tried to do it for her, she would knock it out of his hand. He thought again of the longing way she watched the dancers, and he could not have his Belle sad.

"Tell me, Lady Belle," he leaned closer to whisper, so that only the two of them could hear. "Do you wish to dance some more?"

"Well, it would be better than leaning against the wall all night. Not that I have any complaint for your company, my lord."

"If you're bored, might I suggest an adventurous alternative?" With one sly smirk, he immediately won her over.

"What did you have in mind?"

That's his girl. "You visit Whitehall often. Are there any private parlors a couple scoundrels could hide for a little clandestine moonlight dancing?"

She did not speak for a while. He worried that he finally reached his offensive quota for the night. Really, they only knew each other for three days, but she brought this out in him. He went out of his to get the _ton_ off their guard, to never predict his next move, but for Belle, it was not a tactic. It was an attempt to keep her interested, and maybe help her open up a little.

"In the west side," she finally said, "there's a parlor that has not been used in years. No one would go in there."

—

—

—

They arrived at the parlor separately to avoid suspicion, and crept quietly inside, giggling like children.

Belle had never felt so scandalous. If anyone, even her friends, caught wind of this, her reputation would be ruined forever. But dash it all, she missed having fun.

That struck a cold chord within her. _She missed having fun_. For most of her life, it was all pomp, circumstance, and tea time. Once meeting Lord Kent, she felt a small flicker of light within her, something she had not felt in a very long time.

She loved her father, truly, but she missed the days of her childhood when it was just the two of them and his library, fending off pirates and slaying dragons together. And then out of the blue, he pushed her into the arms of her first governess, and occupied himself with the drink.

It was not until her association with Lord Kent did she realize how lonely she felt. There was good company in Mary Margaret, but it was not the same. He friend did not thirst for daring adventure, content to live for fashion and romance.

Kent took her by the hand and brought her to the center of the room, positioning them for another waltz.

"Wait," she said. "There's no music."

"We will just have to pretend, dearie."

And truly, as they began to sway, Belle heard a new song in her head. After a few turns, she realized it was the beat of her heart, thumping hard against her chest in resting in her throat at the same time. What was this feeling of lightness? Of warmth? In any other circumstance, with any other man, she would have appalled at the idea of meeting in secret, but with him she felt… safe.

They dance longer than usually called for, their hands affixing to each other, fitting perfectly. Time seemed to pass forever, and her mind drifted, her eyelids feeling heavy. Goodness, was it getting late? She felt so sleepy, and he felt so warm…

Before drifting to sleep, her mind teased her that she might be falling for Lord Kent…

—-

—-

—-

Jefferson never told him proper etiquette for a lady falling asleep on your chest. Surely the answer was not to wrap your arms around her and bask in her softness and sweet scent. But, again, no one educated him on this, so he reveled in a little bit of rakish behavior before allowing himself to worry.

Why did she fall asleep? Never mind, he would worry about that later, but first, he needed to save her reputation.

He could wake her up. Perhaps with a kiss, like the fairy tales, but theirs was the wrong story. She was not Sleeping Beauty, but the damsel loved by a horrible beast.

Placing her gently on a chaise lounge, he made his way back to the ballroom, seeking out Mrs Lucas.

"Are you good at discretion?" he asked the elderly chaperone.

"Did you know I've been soused all night?"

A bloody fox, this woman. "Lady Belle is resting in the western parlor, the blue one. Get her out of here without anyone seeing. I've bribed the servants, so take their stairway."

Mrs Lucas produced a flask from under her shawl, flexing a burly arm for good measure. "And why should I not call you out right now?"

"Because you love her too much."

Fair enough for her, she took off, slipping away like a cunning hunter. He waited until she left the room completely before strolling to the punch table, casually collecting a trinket from underneath. Tucking the chipped cup in his pocket, he searched for his hostess, or Lady Mary Margaret, to make his excuses and take his leave.

It did not take him long to find the young lady of the house, much to Lady Mary Margaret's misfortune.

Just there, poorly hidden in the apple orchard, were she and Lord Nolan, sharing a lover's embrace…


	9. Whale, Part I

_A brooding fellow, dressed smartly in livers, stood on his doorstep, letter in hand._

_"Is this the household of one Mister Rumold Gold?" he asked._

_Rum, leaning on his shepherd's hook, meekly nodded, not meeting the man's eyes. He knew what that man thought of him, covered in filth, cowering like a child. "Aye, that be me."_

_"A missive for you, sir."_

_Rum tentatively reached for the paper, his knotted fingers fumbling to open the seal. Scanning the words, a smile fought its way to the surface, but he forced it down, instead looking to the other man in hopelessness._

_"This is embarrassing, but I can't read."_

_Rolling his eyes, the man snatched the letter from his hands, reading aloud with a sonorous voice._

**_"To Mr Rumold Gold, of Glasgow,_**

**_"I am Mr Rathmus Egan, Esquire, solicitor of the House of Lords, to Lord Gaston Richard White Avenant, His Grace Duke of Kent._**

**_"I write to you, regretting to inform you of the passing of your cousin, Gaston Avenant, as well for the honor of delivering you the news of your upgraded station. As the next, closest male heir in the family line, you have been elevated from mere Mister and shepherd, to Lord Rumold Robert Gold, His Grace Duke of Kent, as you shall be addressed forthwith._**

**_"I humbly ask Your Grace, that you come to London to discuss matters of your estate._**

**_"Yours in service, Mr Rathmus Egan Esq."_**

—-

—-

—-

Rum found it simpler to call upon a young lady if he had no real intentions toward her. For once, he dressed for a visit without stressing over an outfit, but still aimed to be dashing. As he selected a pair of gloves, Jefferson straightened his jacket, giving his report.

"Last night I followed Whale, as you ordered. As I hid in a filthy tree, rebuffing the attentions of an aggressive squirrel, I caught the good doctor doing something quite naughty."

"Do tell."

"When the last streetlamp had been snuffed, Whale snuck into the Whitehall estate. And stayed there. For a solid hour."

He held out a selection of cufflinks, waiting for Rum to pick one. Shaking his head at Rum's choice, he put them on.

"That doesn't mean anything. There could have been a card game." Rum checked himself in the mirror.

"She was literally pushing him out of the window," said his valet. "Throwing his clothes out after him."

The pair tittered, scandal always a fun topic no matter who the subject. Picking up his cane, Rum handed Jefferson a satchel. "Make sure that everything in here end up in the right place.

"You know, Your Grace, all the work you have me do, you ought to pay me more. I do the work of maybe seven Runners."

—

—

—

Rum arrived at the Whitehall Estate, giving himself one last primp, smoothing out his sleeves, minding the daisy in his hand.

A world-weary, elderly man answered the door; presumably the butler. For a moment, he was certain he had seen this old man before, and his suspicions were confirmed when the man stooped in fear.

"The mistress of the house is not at home," he sputtered in a rush, hurrying to slam the door. But Rum was too quick, using his cane as a wedge. Stepping through, he brushed the butler aside and helped himself to the parlor.

"Well, then, it's fortunate I am not here to see the hag, but rather the young lady. Pray, would _she_ be hiding as well?"

A gentle voice floated from the doorway. "What is going on?"

"Ah, Lady Mary Margaret," he made a little bow, offering the flower. "You have a lovely home. I would have said as much last night, but I had to run from the crush. I'm and old man, you understand."

She took his gift, very much not smiling, but offered her thanks. "Do you need to speak with my step-mother, Lord Kent?"

"Actually-"

"Yes, he does, dear."

Speak of the devil. Regina, languid against the doorway, snapped her fingers and pointed to the hall, a signal for her step-daughter to take her leave. After the girl made a hasty retreat, she slammed the door behind her.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked, sauntering to a cabinet to pour herself a glass of brandy. He found it rude that she did not offer her guest a glass.

"What manners, dearie. Not that it's any of your business, but I am here to see your precious young ward. An older man like myself relishes in the company of young ladies."

Regina grimaced, suppressing a shiver. "And if I forbid her from speaking with you?"

"Then you will find that my share of the Blue Fairy will have dramatically increased by next month."

She poured herself another glass, staring him down. She approached him until their noses were almost touching, and he refused to show that her close proximity gave him discomfort, standing his ground and matching her glare.

"You know," she whispered, "that gambit won't trap me forever. Say, does your darling Belle know about your dark secrets?"

"The difference there, dearie, is that your secret has _proof_." This time he came forward, and Regina had the temporary wisdom to retreat. "And if you ever threaten me with that again, I might just arrange a meeting for Sidney Glass at the House of Lords."

She paled, swallowing.

"Now step aside… please."

—

—

—

"My step-mother never lets me get too close to the trees. She tends to them herself, and doesn't want anything to happen to them."

Lady Mary Margaret and Rum took a walk in the famous Whitehall orchard. The renowned honey-crisp apples were featured in every festival, fair, and feast. Dowager Marchioness of Whitehall took pride in her trees, and guarded them jealously, as evidenced by her lurking in the window, watching them with a wary eye.

"I appreciate the tour, dearie. I rarely get to visit the gardens in Hyde Park. My health, you know." He gave a wink to their chaperone, and Regina had the decency to blush. "Those damn workers are disturbing the peace over there."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Yes, dearie, there's a particular greenhouse deep in the park undergoing renovations. It's still safe to tour, but no one bothers, due to the construction; lumber and panes everywhere. Just awfully tacky, but thank goodness it is all out of sight where no one can see. Why, at night, it's downright invisible."

He stopped walking when he realized he was alone. He turned to look over his shoulder to find his companion frozen by a tree, staring off into the distance. Pleased with himself, he joined her under the shade of the leaves.

"Something on your mind, dearie?"

That snapped her out of her daze, making her apologies. Wishing her a good day, he reached behind her to pluck an apple. He could feel the fury radiating from that window, and he met her eyes in challenge, smirking with mirth, knowing that the silly woman was seething from not knowing his plans.

Taking a bite before tossing the apple over his shoulder, he gave the witch a bow, showing himself out.

—

—

—

_"This isn't going to work."_

_Jefferson reclined on his favorite sofa, swirling the wine in his glass, mentally critiquing his master's leather-heavy wardrobe, but not saying anything. Rum apparently had a fetish, and it was useless to argue._

_"We've gotten this far, _now _you're starting doubt?"_

_"You won't be able to act the part."_

_"They won't expect me to, I_ am _a country bumpkin after all."_

_"But what if they recognize you."_

_"They won't. When squashing vermin, do you take note of its features?"_

_Jefferson set his wine aside to join Rum at the mirror, brushing away any lint. _

_"And what of your lady love?" Jefferson asked. "The unsung siren? Belle? The woman you've never met. What if she won't marry you?"_

_Rum snapped his glove, and smiled. It was not a happy smile, born of mirth or simple amusement. It was cold, calculating, and sinister._

_"Simple, dearie. __**I will give her no choice**__."_


	10. Jones, Part II

Belle burrowed in her bedclothes to escape a chill, still recovering from her fever, while she dabbled in the least sensible activity in the world: dwelling. She tried to be sensible at all times, for she was raised that way; no point in dwelling on the past, what was done was done. So why then, did she feel so silly about taking ill at the ball, presumably after dancing with Lord Kent? Goodness, she hoped she did not infect him. It was hard to tell, her memory foggy. She danced with Kent one moment, and the next, she woke up in her bed, sweating and shaking from the fever.

Her legs felt sore, she longed for a walk, but even her adventurous heart (she blushed at the thought, Kent's comment on her nature coming back to her) knew a promenade was foolish. Perhaps a jaunt to the library? Besides, she needed a book to occupy her silly mind if she must spend another day in this room.

Creeping through the house, she neared the library, only to stop at her father's study. He had left the door open, and she could see a candle still burning, even though it was morning.

Father's head lay on the desktop, dead to the world, with a glass of sherry still loosely clasped in one hand. She knew very well that her father drank to excess, but still shook her head in disapproval, hating his state. He was not always like this, his habit had not started until she debuted, the pressure to find a new fiance taking its toll. Taking away the bottle, she could not help but look over the documents splayed across his workspace.

_Markers… Rents… Winnings…_

Most would tell Belle that her father's finances were none of her business, and she would ask those people to sod off. She had a future, and an estate to secure, the least she could do was to make sure it would still be there when her father's time came.

So much money was pouring in, which worried her. Her father seemed quite gifted at cards, but too gifted. No one could possibly win this often, the odds were astronomically against the idea. To build on her suspicions, she noticed that as much money that came in, the same was going _out_. So many loans were going out to…

Belle set the desk as her father left it before submitting to a drunken stupor, rushing to her room to retrieve her shawl and inform Mrs Lucas that she had an errand to run.

* * *

Jones did not take too kindly to Gold's visit; that was the intent, of course, considering the nature. He jumped from the bow of his ship to the dock, landing with the practiced flair of a cat.

"What makes you think you have the right?" The sailor snarled, baring his teeth, crossing his arms.

Rum snapped his fingers, maintaining eye contact with Jones, and Jefferson, at his place over his master's shoulder, produced a letter from his jacket, handing it over to the disgruntled knight.

"This missive from your friend, Avenant," said Rum, grinning, "declares that you owe Kent money. I am Kent. You owe me money, and I want to collect."

Jones snatched the letter, and read, his eyes rapidly scanning the page, hands trembling. It felt good to witness this man experience fear and uncertainty, Rum found. To be on the other side, and take pleasure in someone else's suffering, the knowledge that this was only the beginning adding to his delight.

"Well, my lord, I'm afraid to inform you that you have wasted your time." The veneer had resurfaced, the letter returned with crumpled edges. "I have no money, so you'll just have to wait until I scramble something together." And then he had the gall to swagger off, unknowing that his superior plotted his death.

But Rum also recovered quickly. "No, but you have collateral." He considered the ship, waiting for the eruption.

It took a moment for Jones to take his meaning. "No… no! No, absolutely not, you are not taking _The Milah_."

"Are you offering an alternative? Because I do not plan to wait one more day."

"Why do you want the money anyway? You can afford to wait."

"Ah, but here's the thing." He tapped his cane, watching the sea, his arrogance infuriating his adversary. "I do not like debts; I always get my due. I could afford to wait, yes, but you have not made a payment in over a year. So, either you give me what I want, or you hand the ship over to me."

Jones kicked, stomped, and pulled at his own hair, desperation pooling off of him in waves. He spun in a small circle, looking at his hands, as if he would find the answer there. Relief dawned on his face, and he approached Rum, clapping a hand to his shoulder.

"Interestingly enough, chum, I will be falling into good fortune very soon. I cannot say when, but would you give me a chance and just wait a little longer?"

"You have three days."

* * *

Later that evening, Rum lounged in his parlor, treating himself for a job well done with a glass of champagne, toasting the first step towards his victory.

That was not to last, however, as Jefferson barreled his way in, tripping over his feet, meeting with his master on his knees.

"What the devil is wrong with you?"

His man held up a hand, clutching his chest as he caught his breath, the rest of him paralyzed by fear. When he finally relaxed, he delivered the most calamitous news Rum had heard in years.

"It's Lady Belle, Gold. She and Jones are engaged."


	11. Cheating, Part I

Ladies of quality and status were meant to stay away from gambling houses; those were for men only, in order to get away from their ghastly wives, and harpy sisters. A place where men could sit down, have a brandy, and be men. The fact that a woman owned The Blue Fairy, the most profitable house in London, did not bother them because the Dowager Marchioness had the good sense to never show her face.

Belle arrived to break tradition. Women seeking an altercation or intervention, were kept outside with the empty promise that their man inside would be out in a moment. But not Belle, she had a mission, and no one was going to get in her way.

Save for Dove, the tall, silent, daunting gentleman that stood guard at the front door; he might stop her. She tried to hide her fear, setting her shoulders, thinking of a way to get past him, when Mrs Lucas shoved her aside, and flexed her arms, coming so close, she might have stepped on the man's toes.

"Now, look here!" Her chaperone's voice rang in her ears. "My mistress needs to see Dowager Whitehall. I don't want any lip from you, because you're going to step aside, you hear me?"

For a moment, Belle worried for her, apologies at the ready. Dove seemed to grow taller, bending nearly in half to make eye contact with Mrs Lucas. Tension carried between them, time stopping. But as it felt like an eternity, it was also over in an instant, as Dove bowed, and opened the door for them.

Mrs Lucas purposely stepped inside, nose in the air. Belle curtsied, following her, quickening her pace. The servants were given instruction to take them through the servant halls to the office, where they waited by a fire.

They were not kept waiting long, the Dowager sauntering in, a champagne glass in one hand. Motioning for the ladies to remain seated, she joined them.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Lady Belle?" asked the dowager.

"Please, Your Ladyship," Belle looked at her hands."I am sorry to disturb you like this-"

"Dear, by all means." Regina set down her glass, dissipating her apology with a regal flick of her wrist. "I deal with the weaker sex all day, and I yearn for female companionship. Go on, what brings you here?" Resting on an elbow, she lounged, eyebrow raised in expectancy.

For anyone else, it would have been a simple matter to ask a favor. But she rarely interacted with (real) ladies beyond a ballroom, and even then, the conversations never extended beyond reminiscing over her mother, or informing her that gold was not her color. Not that they ever bothered her, but she had grown used nodding, and keeping her silence, lest she cause a scene. That same respect for good manners held her back now, but there was _something_ about the way the dowager smiled at her, like she was a silly child, that made her itch.

"I know this to be an unusual request, but…"

—

When Belle came home, a heaviness overwhelmed her. She could never explain it, but she knew by the pit of her stomach that something was _wrong_.

Bearing her failure on her shoulders, she climbed the stairs to her room, falling on each step, instead of rising. Dragging her feet, wringing her shawl through her fingers, she twined it around her wrists, pulling on the fabric in hopes to rid herself of tension with each pull. So preoccupied with her thoughts, she leaped at the sound of her door slamming behind her.

Dropping her bonnet and shawl, she placed her hand over her heart, releasing a squeak, feeling silly.

"_You can't avoid me now, love._"

Head spinning, distress washed over her as Sir Killian stalked her. Every part of her froze, a soft ringing in her ear her only connection to reality. _Why was he in her room?_

When she would eventually look back on this moment, she would tell herself to run, or throw something. Possibly scream, but to never, _ever, freeze._

Jones snatched her arm and pulled her close, his grip tight and burning. Her limbs started reacting faster than she could think, fighting against him, pulling away, but his grip was too strong. His hand over her mouth, he shushed her, whispering in her ear. His voice crawled down her spine, terror and revulsion pushing her to fight harder.

"If you value your life, you will keep your damn mouth shut, yes?"

Belle managed to free one of her hands.

With a right hook, she felled him, her fist making contacting his cheek, a sharp crack echoing through the room. Running for the door, legs trembling, she fumbled with the doorknob, but Jones recovered too quickly, his hands forcing her to turn around and meet him.

"Now, now," he said, his hand stroking her hair, "there's no need to be frightened. I won't hurt you as long as you. Don't. Fight. Me."

Twisting her wrist, praying for the chance to punch him again, she had let the door push her into his arms, as it opened behind her.


	12. Jones, Part III

Bessie, a maid in the French household, raced to her room with two-hundred pounds in her pocket and a smile on her face. Once inside, she leaned against the door, resting a hand on her breast to feel her heart pounding. The entire house erupted in chaos, starting with a visit from the devilishly handsome Sir Jones. As the investigation spread through the staff, she made herself scarce, to pack and plan out her new life. Obviously, she would have to hide at her mother's until everyone lost interest, before venturing off to acheive her life-long dream.

Yodeling. In the colonies.

Using light from a single candle, she removed her valise from under the bed and threw in a few dresses. Certain she could carry all she needed, Bessie hurried down the servants stairs, loud voices from the young miss's parlor rumbling through the halls.

* * *

Jefferson cursed as perfectly good brandy spilled onto his boots, damning the madman leading their midnight escapade. Gold looked every part the villain of a sensational novel, in his black coat and hat, leaning against his cane while brooding. Upon the valet's unfortunate news, Gold ordered a carriage to the French estate, offering no explanations; he just needed to be _there_.

The duke did not want to share his thoughts, though there was no doubt they were written all over his face. Most of his plans were dismantled in one night by a blasted sailor, because the fool thought he had too much to lose.

Jones had no idea how much he was going to lose.

But Rum could save everything. He just had to _think. _Glancing out the window, he could see Belle's house coming around the corner, and he shouted for the driver to stop, suddenly, annoying Jefferson. The ridiculous hedonist spilled his glass again, and gave up the drink for a lost cause. He watched curiously as his master opened the door and gestured with his cane - "Get out."

"Excuse me?" asked Jefferson.

"I don't want to be seen. Run to the house, and speak with your source. Find out what the hell happened."

"And what, pray tell, will you be doing?"

"Never you mind," said Gold. He tapped his cane once, and then returned to his brooding.

* * *

Jones left a weeping Sir French, with a betrothal contract in his pocket replacing two-hundred pounds. A hand still on the doorknob, he took a moment to breathe, relieved that things had come together, and his future remained secure. Bribing the maid put him further in debt, but that could not compare to his freedom.

He attempted to navigate his way down a darkened hallway, but he soon found himself forced against a wall. After a small struggle, he fought off his attacker with an elbow jab, and ran off, hearing footsteps chasing after him. He had almost made it to the front door when he was reacquainted with the wall. Before he could cry out, a damp cloth was shoved over his nose, and blackness followed...

...leaving a poor taste in his mouth as he woke strapped to a chair, a sack over his head. Ears ringing, and head pounding, he twisted against the bonds to no avail. Not unused to hostility, he took a long breath through the nose, and listened for any clues to his whereabouts to find... nothing. Absolutely nothing. He felt no heat, nor cold, and did not hear water running or even the scuttle of a rat. Not even the usual smell of dungeon rot.

After a lifetime of waiting, he heard keys jangle, and then a door open.

Keeping his breath even, he feigned sleep. Unfortunately, he did too well a job, because a bucket's worth of water suddenly drenched him. As he gasped for air, shocked by the cold deluge, a firm hand pulled him forward by the neck accompanied by hot breath at his ear.

"Wotcher, pirate."

Some cockney bastard from his less than reputable sea-faring days had come to look for another handout; hardly a threat. Although this man was more aggressive than his previous associates, he could be dealt with with a tenner and empty promises.

"Reckon you think me afraid," said Jones, "and you'd be right. I would be happy to pay whatever it takes for you to return whatever driftwood you washed up from."

Something hard slapped him on the wrists.

"You could start with one-thousand pounds," the stranger whispered.

"Alri-"

Another slap.

"I know you don't have it."

Slap.

"Ever heard the expression 'pound of flesh?'"

* * *

The screaming from the basement caused Jefferson to spill his brandy for the upteenth time that night. With a sigh of resignation, he set down the glass and made his way to the secret chamber. If Gold did not take care, the neighbors would hear everything.

The sight behind the door was sickening, for sure, but it ranked low on the many gruesome deeds he had witnessed the past year. Jones lay on the floor bleeding and bruised, Gold's foot poised over his head. "Kiss my boot," he was saying. Jefferson waited in the shadows, ready to intervene lest the situation grow too loud. Gold stomped on the broken man's jaw, ignoring his pleas of "Enough," and "Please." The sack had been removed, but that did not matter; his eyes had swollen shut.

Apparently satisfied, Jefferson watched Gold haul Jones to a table, holding down one arm on the wooden surface. That's when the valet noticed the rusty cleaver.

"I don't know about this..." he started.

"Hush," his master hissed, holding the blade high over his head. "I almost forgot about my pound of flesh." And then he swung.


	13. Her Fate

Belle had long learned that pouting was for children. And she was far removed from childhood. Throwing a sack of provisions over her shoulder, she took a moment to steel herself for the dangerous journey.

Everything happened so fast. Sir Killian Jones kissed her, and then there was screaming, and next she found herself consoling her weeping father in his office. The man had lost his precious daughter to a scoundrel because he failed to protect her. Because she failed to take care, and threw her reputation to the wind.

Jones demanded a speedy engagement, playing a man taken in passion, ready to sacrifice his freedom to rescue the lady from certain ostracism. Wouldn't that have been a tragedy.

Papa could not refuse. He had no choice. He could bribe the servants to keep quiet, but there was not enough money in the world for Jones. He insisted that marriage was the proper course of action, and how dare French suggest he turn a blind eye. Belle watched, with horror, as Papa signed an agreement. No one looked at her, or listened. She did not care about scandal, only for her papa's happiness. But she still felt the sting of betrayal, her world falling apart, as he signed the papers.

Sequestering herself in her room, she waited. Waited for the nightmare to end. Waited for a fever to break. For the earth to open beneath her and swallow her whole.

How could this have happened? In an instant, her life had been taken completely out of her hands by men out to protect themselves. The very thought filled her with so much anger...

Enough. No more sulking. Like hell would she face a lifetime with that man. She should never have been allowed near books, most especially Shakespeare; she had too many romantic expectations, and Jones failed to meet them. And Belle was supposed to let him lord over her? Make her decisions for her?

Never.

No one decided her fate but her.

Belle had not climbed down the railing since she was a little girl, a long time ago before Mrs Lucas joined the household. Remembering for certain that such a task could never be accomplished in skirts and slippers, she pilfered breeches and a shirt from one of the footmen, wrapping her hair in a tight bun hidden under an urchin's cap. The sacked tied tightly around her shoulders, and a reticule tucked into her breeches, Belle took one last look at her bedroom, saying goodbye to the life she could never return.

Wiping away a single tear, she descended into the darkness.

* * *

It was a lovely afternoon at the Whitehall Estate. The more highly regarded ladies of the ton were having tea with the dowager, and her step-daughter.

Lady Mary Margaret had been seated beside Lady Kathryn Nolan, wife to second son Lord David Nolan of Charmant.

Her soulmate and secret lover, David Nolan - a fact she kept trying to not think to herself as Lady Kathryn asked her about suitors. Did this woman have to be so kind, or so smart? And the perfect wife, ever devoted.

Darling David suffered a blow to the head earlier in the spring, his memory gone for a solid month. Then, out of the blue, it all came back, and he had evolved to a romantic, and a true gentleman, much unlike his twin brother James, or even their cold father.

At her coming-out ball, he asked her to dance. The moment they locked eyes had been true love. Mary Margaret knew in an instant, that she could never live without him.

He wanted to leave his wife. Truly. But he could not just divorce Kathryn and elope with _her_. No one would receive them ever again. And as much as she loved him, she refused to dishonor herself and her father's memory as David's mistress for the rest of her life.

Regina suspected nothing, thank the Lord. Her step-mother would kill her for sure, and she could feel it in her bones that the woman was capable of murder, if pushed. Well, perhaps not murder, but Mary Margaret would never be allowed to leave the house alive.

No, if they wanted their relationship to move forward, they needed to disappear from society altogether.

She was to see her beloved tonight.

At the greenhouse Kent told her about.

* * *

"What news of Belle," Rum asked. "Has she come out, yet?"

"No. Word is, she's still hiding out in her room. Hasn't come out all night, and all day. But the girl has got to eat eventually." Jefferson delivered his evening report, studying his master's forlorn expression. Understanding the kind of night to lay ahead of him, he pulled out a flask from his jacket pocket.

Rum tapped his fingers along his cane. Nothing felt right, and he did not know how to fix it. He terrified Jones, but the man was still a nuisance, his engagement the biggest word in London. Two young people so in love, priorities be damned. This year's Incomparable had tamed the infamous rake, how romantic.

There was time, and he needed to focus on the mission. When it came to Belle, the world would wait for him to make his move.

"Keep an eye on Lady Blanchard. Tonight should be foggy."


	14. Downstairs, Part I

The largest issue in having an education strictly based from books, is that most of that knowledge cannot be applied to the real world.

The hardest lesson Belle learned to date.

She scrubbed the floors, beat the curtains, and also every ridiculous task the Lady Tremaine conceived in the powdered heap no one could call a head. The middle-aged woman recently lost a maid and seemed determined to make Belle pay for this outrageous insult. The moment Belle donned her apron, she had been subjected to grueling tasks meant for a legion of scullery maids. But she had no choice; clean the old house from top to _very_ bottom, or beg in the streets. Work with decent pay was hard to come by without references.

She started this adventure, hoping to work and save money to buy a ticket to America, having read of women making their own fortunes over there. But at this rate...

The Boyd - now Tremaine - home bore signs of destitution. Almost everything needed repair: the roofs, the floors, and the stairs. The words cracked, rotten, and desolate could describe the place perfectly, and Belle was not afraid of the hard work it would take to get this building to rights. No, she always heard people say that work built character.

She was more afraid of Lady Tremaine's daughters.

Druzella, the eldest, had black hair and took pleasure in watching her struggle. Throughout the day, between music lessons, the young woman would just stand around and observe Belle going about her daily tasks while commenting on her ugliness and dirty clothes. She ignored the girl out of exhaustion rather than politeness. As well as fear that any remark on the girl's own appearance would lead to termination.

The other daughter, Marguerite, was a spoiled brat. Blonde and beautiful, she demanded the best in everything, even at the expense of her partner in terror, her sister. From the gossip Belle gleaned in the market, and Marguerite's own lamenting, the girl was betrothed to a duke's son. She had been carefully groomed to marry well, and lift the family out of near poverty.

And then the duke's son took one look at the maid and decided he would rather marry her rather than someone so shrill and conniving.

Those poor girls. Druzella lived under the shadow of her much prettier sister, and misbehaved for attention. And then Marguerite, with the family's future on her shoulders, but failed them due to her self-serving personality.

She almost felt sorry for them. _Almost_.

Soaked up to her knees in soap scum, Belle was rinsing the last of the laundry (at last!) when Lady Tremaine herself stormed into the cellar, nostrils flared and eyes burning with panic.

"Bessie," she begain, ignoring Belle's immediate connection, "our estate is having a very important visitor this afternoon."

"I will change and ready a tea service, ma'am," said Belle, dusting off her hands.

"Wrong." Lady Tremaine spoke so abruptly, Belle actually froze. "You are to wash your hands, and tend to Marguerite's dress. I need her respeldent within the hour." At that moment, she dug her nails into Belle's shoulders, leading her to the servants' stairs. "One you're finished, you are to _stay_ in your room until I fetch you."

"But what about the tea, ma'am?"

"Do as I say," she gave Belle a little shake. "He likes to make the tea himself, he is very particular."

* * *

Jefferson hated making these rounds, but Gold did not trust many with his money, so it was of course left to the esteemed valet to pick up the bloody _rent_.

While sipping on a lovely infusion made from rose petals and lemon zest, Lady Tremaine sat with him in the least dusty parlor, literally parading her daughter, the admittedly ravishing Marguerite. In the five minutes he sat in his chair, it had been suggested that he note her charm, poise, and - God help him - child bearing hips. Shame that this family could not afford a Season this year, else the young woman would have all the eligible men come to heel... out of fear.

An awkward silence followed Marguerite's list of marriagable traits. He drank more tea, pretending to not notice the ladies staring a hole through him. The ticking of the mantel clock drove him to speak.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but don't you have three daughters?"

"Two," was Lady Tremaine's curt response. "_Two_ daughters. The other one is having tea with the orphans. My girls are so giving. Especially my Marguerite," she waved towards her. "She has such a duchess quality. Speaking of quality, how is your master doing, all alone in one of his many houses?"

Ah, yes, the old sale. Jefferson did not have the patience for this, so he pressed on.

"He's perfectly content, m'lady. Now, I hate to be rude, but I believe you owe me some...?"

"Oh, what's money between friends?"

"Quite a lot. And we're not friends. Look, Lord Kent authorized me to accept collateral." He stood up to walk about the room. "I figure this whole room might make a dent. Not sure what you would do about the remaining five hundred pounds."

He could feel the heat of her glare on his back. The awkward silence returned, and he planned an escape route lest the insanity constantly lurking behind her eyes finally let loose.

"Let us not play any more games, Mr. Jefferson," said Lady Tremaine.

"Grand!" He spun around, taking out a small notebook. "Are we selling, or do you have the cash?"

"I mean about my daughter. We know why you came; surely you realize she makes a perfect candidate as Duchess of Kent. I will even allow a quick marriage, if that helps move things along."

Oh, the poor, misguided woman. He snapped his notebook closed, and readied himself for an awkward set down, when a scream was heard from down the hall.


	15. Addendum

Taking advantage of the distraction, Jefferson rushed out of the house. He did not care if someone was being tortured in the cellar, he loathed to spend another minute in such insane company. Let them settle with Gold themselves; watch _him_ squirm under Marguerite's attentions.

He boarded the carriage, resigned to the fact that it was only morning. All this month, he had been hiding in bushes on the Whitehall estate, waiting for little Mary Margaret to make a run for it. Despite the sweltering summer, the nights grew colder, and if he had to put up with it once more...

Ah, to hell with it. Nothing to do but carry brandy, and keep his fingers crossed.

He could hardly complain. Before that fateful day in Paris, Jefferson's life was damned boring, lacking any kinds of heinous fuckery. Running a haberdashery, even a popular one, did not send him on whirlwind adventures to Egypt, China and Germany. Or extort nobles at cliff-edges and scheme for scum to fall about themselves like a house of cards. And all this, oddly, meant to take them to _America_.

Well, it was going to, anyway. The French girl's disappearance threw everything off schedule. Jefferson still kept the plan moving forward, while Gold searched for his lady...

England was small. She won't be able to hide for long.

* * *

Lady Tremaine dragged Druzella to her room, firmly gripping her daughter's ear. The girl howled, but she thought she could dish out much worse.

"Do you have _any_ -" she pulled harder, "idea what could have happened? Over a filthy, stupid rat? I want you to stay in your room tonight and thank your lucky stars that Mr Jefferson did not follow me. We could have been _ruined_!"

Once released, Druzella threw herself onto her bed, screaming into the pillows. The older woman closed the door, straining to understand the cries. Honestly, if she knew how much bother children turned out to be, she would have cut her losses and run off to a nunnery. Perhaps now was not too late?

"For goodness sake." She sat on the bed, and waited out the tantrum. Within a few minutes, the cries petered off, and heavy silence filled the room. Her ladyship hated these moments, most especially with Druzella. Darling Margie would just scream and wait for a sweet to shut her up, but _Dru_... Dru preferred to _talk_.

"Dear, if you must act out, I insist you do it when there isn't a gentleman caller with our future in the palm of his hand?"

Druzella rolled onto her back and scoffed, but did not answer. Enough of this; if the brat would not cooperate, then she had no time to mother. She had more pressing business to handle.

The maid. If she liked rats so much, perhaps she should sleep with them.

* * *

Rum Gold hated rats. They either stole, chewed, or infected. And there was no greater pest in the merry city of London than Lady Regina Mills Blanchard.

Severed hand, and five hours of torture later, Jones begged to see Regina. That she owed him a favor. The prideful bitch did not appreciate help that she need to pay for. She must have something truly dastardly in the works to call in a favor from a _pirate_. Not that Rum would discover her plans any time soon - not even with tools.

And speaking of tools...

Waiting by the window, he watched Jefferson's carriage come up the drive. The Tremaines had very forceful personalities, and they required someone with people skills. As soon as Lady Mary Margaret made her move, he could start counting down the days he could leave all this behind.

He was losing his patience with the girl. She needed proper motivation. Lord Nolan's cowardice kept everything stagnant, and the plan was too delicate for him to directly interfere. But... he knew a prideful bitch that could never help herself. His mind scrambled for a new plan for Regina to dig her own grave.

Jefferson entered the room, beloved hat in hand. The Tremaines succeeded in draining his spirit, made evident by his limp towards a chaise lounge. He nearly crawled onto the cushions, and curled up with a flask.

"Long day?" Rum asked, still facing the window to hide his smile.

"Hush, you." Jefferson took a long sip, and then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "I'm never going back there. Little Margie is still vying to share your title, and I think her mother will kill to get it for her. Old Kent's death is the best thing that ever happened to them. Your not-so fresh meat is the answer to their prayers."

"Indeed. Where is my money?"

"Mind runs on a loop," Jefferson muttered to himself. Thumb fingering the pages of a leather notebook, he checked his figures. "If they sell the whole house, they might scrape by for another month. I'll see if I can send another rich bachelor along their way, take some of the pressure off of you."

Something in Rum clicked. A flash of bright light... and then he saw something brilliant.

_Another rich bachelor_...


End file.
